9 Days Falling, Volume I k-5

by John A. Schettler

  Fedorov had seen enough, standing up with an angry expression on his face. “Here we are trying to stop world war three, but we can damn well do something about this one as well.” He strode boldly towards the scene, walking briskly across the intervening rail lines with a determined gait. Troyak and Zykov were up at once, waiting to see what would happen and watching the armed soldiers closely.

  “You men!” Fedorov shouted. “What are you doing?” He saw that the soldier who had struck the boy was just about to turn his bayonet on the lad and he immediately seized him by the arm and dragged him back. The guard spun around, the butt of his rifle ready to strike. Then he saw the dark Ushanka on Fedorov’s head, the shoulder straps on his jacket and insignia on his chest, and he stopped himself.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I did not see you. I thought you were one of these.” He wagged his head derisively toward the open boxcar. Fedorov looked inside, horrified to see the condition of the car. People were huddled together so closely that they could barely move. The putrid smell of death rolled from the open door. He saw where they had managed to pry loose one of the floorboards in the center of the car where it now served as the solitary toilet facility. The thought that people—men, women, children, would have to squat there on the long train ride filled him with revulsion. Two or three women were sobbing quietly, and the young boy still clung woefully to the old man’s arm, wailing “dedushka, dedushka—grandfather, grandfather!”

  “The man is dead,” the guard pointed. “He must be removed.”

  Fedorov edged closer to the boy, seeing how the people nearest to him instinctively shirked back—from the uniform he wore, not knowing the man inside this one, but having undoubtedly met many others who wore that garb.

  “Do not be afraid,” he said in a quiet voice, and he reached in and put his hand softly on the young boy’s head, as if to soothe away the sting of the guard’s blows and comfort him. A young woman brave enough to meet his eyes was watching the scene, and seeing her he gestured that she should come closer. “Help me with him, please,” he said quietly.

  He told the boy not to worry, and that they were going to take his grandpa to see the doctor. Hearing his voice and seeing the expression on his face, the people seemed to perceive that he was of a different ilk, uniform aside, and two men within moved to assist. One of the women took the young boy into her arms while the men eased the old man out. The guards just stood there stupidly, thinking to see the man simply pushed from the train car onto the ground, and when Fedorov saw this he sharply ordered them to take hold of the man and carry him forward, out of the boy’s sight.

  Fedorov turned to the soldier who had struck the child, his anger still very apparent. “What is your name, soldier?”

  “Melinikov, sir.”

  “You have a grandfather, Melinikov?”

  “Sir?

  “You have a grandfather, do you not? What if he was lying there on that filthy floor, eh? And what were you going to do with that bayonet, kill a child?”

  “His grandfather would not be stupid enough to get himself stuffed in a rail car like that,” came a hard edged voice, and Fedorov turned to see another NKVD man had come out of the coach car and was striding to the scene. He looked to be an officer, and he did not look happy. “Who are you and what business is it of yours?”

  Chapter 2

  Fedorov knew from the sound of his voice that this man was the ring leader of this rail security detachment, a Lieutenant by rank, inured to the pain and suffering of others and the man truly responsible for the conditions here. He knew this train was probably one of a hundred others that had come east this month, and though it seemed a futile blow against a tide he could not possibly hope to stem, he was here in front of this train at the moment and, by God, he was going to do something about situation.

  “What business is it of mine?” he said with as much of a tone of threat as he could put in his voice. He turned to face the man, allowing deliberate silence to communicate his displeasure as he looked him up and down. The officer wore black leather boots beneath flared navy blue trousers and a leather jacket with gold plated buttons. A brown shoulder strap crossed his chest to a pistol holster at his left hip. A brown leather pouch was at his other hip, attached to his belt. A young man, he nonetheless wore round wire framed spectacles and seemed to squint in spite of them, his eyes narrow with insolence. He wore a black billed, blue felt officer’s cap with a gold star centered on red hatband. His face was shrouded with a pall of cigarette smoke and he took a long draw on the butt before slowly pinching the tip to put it out, exhaling heavily.

  “These are my men,” he said slowly. “This is my train, and we have a schedule to keep. Who are you?”

  Fedorov ignored his challenge. “Oh, you have a schedule to keep? Is that so? Well when are you supposed to continue east, Lieutenant?” He named the man’s rank with some disdain in his voice, squaring off to him so his rank and insignia were apparent, particularly the medals on his chest: the Order of the Red Star over his right breast, correctly placed after the Order of the Patriotic War, 1st class.

  “As soon as we feed these mongrels, what concern is it of yours?”

  “I have just made it my concern, and now you will make it yours. The conditions on this train are despicable. I want these people taken off the cars, and you and your men will clean them, lay in fresh straw, and then you will feed these people, understood?”

  “My men? Clean their filth?” The Lieutenant smirked at him. “You must be joking.”

  “And you must be deaf,” Fedorov said quickly. “And possibly blind as well.” Then he did something that he had seen in a movie once, though he could not recall the picture. He had been standing, hands on his hips as he confronted the NKVD Lieutenant, and now he just extended his right hand off to one side and loudly snapped his fingers, as if summoning some vicious dog. “Sergeant Troyak!”

  The heavy footfalls of the solid Siberian Gunnery Sergeant were quick and hard on the graveled rail beds as Troyak strode up to the scene. “Sir!” he said crisply, more dangerous looking than any dog Fedorov could have called to his side.

  “Sergeant, the Lieutenant here must be deaf. He doesn’t seem to know an order when he hears one. What do you think of that?”

  “Regrettable, sir.” Troyak fixed the Lieutenant with a hard stare.

  “And the Lieutenant here must be blind as well, because he doesn’t seem to know there’s an NKVD Colonel standing in front of him.”

  “Very blind, sir.” Troyak took a step forward, very deliberately.

  “Indeed. Well what should we do about this, Sergeant?”

  “Sir, perhaps the Lieutenant needs a new pair of spectacles.” Troyak turned, silently pulling off his leather gloves as he stared the officer down with a murderous glare. He saw the other man’s hand drift slowly towards the holster on his left hip, and spoke again, his tone so menacing and hostile that it seemed to freeze the other man’s blood. “And if the Lieutenant is stupid enough to try and draw his pistol perhaps he needs his head ripped off and shoved up his ass as well.”

  Now Troyak clenched his jaw and took two small steps forward his eyes never loosening their grip on the other man, his physical mass and presence awesomely threatening. The Lieutenant instinctively took a backward step, seeming to quail before the rock-like figure before him. Few men on earth would have been able to stand their ground against the look Troyak had on his face.

  Fedorov had to struggle to keep a serious expression on his own face. He repeated his order. “You and your men will hand your weapons to the Sergeant here and find shovels, Lieutenant. Then you will clean both these train cars at once. Lay in fresh straw, get these people fed, and place a barrel of fresh water with cups and a bucket in each car. And be damn quick about it! This train has a schedule to keep, if I recall what you told me just a moment ago.”

  The NKVD Lieutenant was livid, but clearly intimidated, his eyes bobbing from Fedorov to Troyak and back again, his hand still on hi
s holster buckle. He stole a glance at his men. Three were still standing by the open boxcar door, bayoneted rifles in hand, their eyes fixed on their Lieutenant as they wondered what they should do. One man was slowly leveling his rifle at Fedorov until another voice was heard. Zykov had been watching closely and keeping a particularly sharp eye on the armed soldiers. Now he was strolling quietly up to the scene, Russian Spetsnaz SMG primed and ready.

  “Finally some work for my Bizon-2,” he said naming the weapon as he brandished it at the soldiers. “Nine by eighteen millimeter high impulse Makarov rounds in a helical sixty-four round magazine. Very good in a firefight, particularly at close quarters. Fully automatic at seven hundred rounds per minute when I have to clear a room out.” He stood, looking at the soldiers with a grim smile on his face.

  Finally the Lieutenant spit out an order. “Put those rifles down and do as the Colonel says,” he said with obvious agitation, his face reddening with anger and humiliation. Then to Fedorov he said, “This is unheard of! The Chief of Security will want to know about this, I assure you!”

  “Is that so? Where is he?” Fedorov looked around. “Is he here? Another man would make the work go faster, yes?”

  The Lieutenant threw his cigarette butt to the ground and started to turn and walk away, looking back with annoyance when Troyak put his big hand on his shoulder, held him in place, and then deftly removed his pistol from the side holster. “He must be deaf, sir. He was about to walk away without giving me his weapon as ordered.”

  “Regrettable,” said Fedorov.

  Zykov was standing a few feet away now, trying to keep himself from laughing, but still watching the soldiers very closely. Then, at a hand gesture from Troyak, he moved quickly to collect the rifles. There were shovels at the back of the coach car and Fedorov told Troyak to supervise the work and make sure it was done correctly.

  “But what about this lot?” The NKVD Lieutenant pointed at the occupants of the train.

  “Don’t worry about them. I’ll keep an eye on them while you work. Now get busy, Lieutenant. I have a schedule to keep as well—three more trains to inspect today, and yours has just interrupted my meal.”

  The Lieutenant and his guards emptied out the first car, and Fedorov saw to it that the soldiers helped the youngest children and infirm. He also told Zykov to get the five soldiers still riding in his own train coach and put them to work on the other car. After seeing what had just happened, and realizing they would be riding on the same train car with this unexpected NKVD Colonel, they made no protest and quickly went to work. When the bespectacled Lieutenant saw this squad he naturally assumed they were the rank and file of Fedorov’s security detachment, and he inwardly cursed his bad luck in running across this Colonel. He had not expected to find another NKVD unit here.

  Fedorov watched until he was satisfied the work was being done as ordered. Then he sent the railroad workers off into the marshalling yard and told them to bring any fresh hay they could find at hand, which was often kept in yard bins for just this purpose. It took all of two hours, but when the work had finally finished Fedorov made a point of finding the Lieutenant again.

  “What is your name,” he demanded.

  “Lieutenant Mikael Surinov.” The man was clearly not happy, but of no mind to confront this Colonel who had come upon the scene so unexpectedly. Yet he burned with inner anger and resentment over what he had been forced to do.

  “Well, Lieutenant, you are a disgrace to that uniform. Yes, our job is security here, and yes, it’s a dirty business, but not like this—not with our own people. Let the Nazis do that.”

  “But these are detainees of the state!” Surinov protested.

  “That may be so, but they are human beings. Who knows what they did to end up stuffed in that filthy train car? Probably nothing. They are most likely there because some ass like you simply decided they should be. Your man almost put a bayonet through a ten year old crying for his Dedushka! Now where is this train going?”

  “Khabarovsk. The Camp at Verkhniy.”

  “Khabarovsk? Excellent!” Fedorov smiled, with some good lozh in mind. “I just came from there to make these inspections. I’ll be heading back that way soon. See that this train is kept clean and humane for the rest of the trip east. Understand?”

  He made one last inspection of the cars, still not satisfied. There were too many people crammed into too little space. So he took Surinov in tow and inspected the rest of the train. There were two coach cars, largely empty just like his own train.

  “Who is riding in this coach?”

  “My men, of course,” said Surinov.

  “Five men in using all this space? There must be seats for thirty people here. And who is in the other coach?”

  “That is my car.” Surinov raised his chin, looking at Fedorov through the bottom of his spectacles.

  “Your car?” Fedorov’s disapproval was apparent.

  He walked boldly up to the car and had a look inside. There were three young women there, obviously very frightened, and one had a thick lip where she had taken a blow recently. He pursed his lips, realizing what was going on here at once, and very upset.

  “So you prefer the company of women, do you? Well it’s time you learned some military discipline, Lieutenant. You are an officer in the State Internal Security Division, and this train is being sent east for a purpose—it is not a brothel! You want to share your coach with women? So be it!”

  He strode off and soon had his soldiers remove all the elderly women from the over cramped box cars, the old babushkas who might be the next to die on the long journey in the cold box cars. If there were married couples he let their husbands accompany them, and he soon had Troyak and Zykov supervise their placement in more comfortable seats and compartments in the two coach cars. Then he went back to the Lieutenant, removed the three young girls from his car and sent them back to the box cars, a much safer place for them now, or so he reasoned.

  Lieutenant Surinov watched, a controlled rage plain to see on his face, though he could do nothing about the situation. Who was this new NKVD man? He had never seen him on the line before this, nor had he ever seen an NKVD colonel act this way.

  When the resettlement was finished Fedorov went back to Surinov with one last threatening order. “I see there is no room left in your coach now. All the seats are taken, so you and your men will now ride in the engine or coal car. Understood? Don’t worry about these people, the provodnits will manage them. They are to remain here until you reach your final destination, and they are to be treated with dignity and respect!” His voice was loud now, and everyone in the two coach cars could hear what he was saying.

  “Now… I will have my men return your weapons—but without the bayonets. These are people, not cattle to be poked and prodded by cold steel. Their fate in Khabarovsk is in the hands of the Camp Commandant, but their fate on this ride east is in your hands. I just counted a hundred and eighty-three souls here, and you are now responsible for their safe delivery. God help your soul should another one die before you get to Khabarovsk….And leave the young girls alone! Those are someone’s daughters, yes? What kind of man are you?”

  Surinov was clearly unhappy with this but stood stolidly, his eyes narrowed, face red with outrage and humiliation. Fedorov could see that the man’s temper would not change easily, and feared that as soon as the train reached the next stop all his work here would be undone, and with considerable anger by this man. He decided he had better make his orders more pointed.

  “I am not making suggestions here, Lieutenant. These are your orders now, and you had better be listening. When I return I will make inquiries about this train. I will come looking for you again, Lieutenant Mikael Surinov. I have written down your name. If I discover you have fallen back on your old ways and these people have been mistreated again, then I believe you and I will sit down with the Sergeant for a very long and uncomfortable discussion. If I hear that these orders were disobeyed…then I hope you enjoy this t
rain ride, it will be your last, Lieutenant.”

  He poked the Lieutenant firmly on the chest where he thought the man’s soul might reside if he had one, then turned and strode away, a small feeling of satisfaction growing in him as he returned to his freight train, now ready to leave the station.

  As they moved west out of the yard Fedorov looked back one last time and saw the other train slowing moving east. He knew he could not right every wrong he would encounter on this journey, and that the days ahead for those poor people would still be harsh and cruel, but not on his watch, and not today. His intervention was one small drop of righteous compassion in a sea of sorrow and war, but for that day it was enough, and it was all that mattered.

  He settled into the kupe compartment and the uniformed provodnits, made his coach check. The man had seen and heard the entire incident from a window in the forward coach, and when his eye met Fedorov’s there was a glint of a smile there, and a glimmer of respect where there had once been wary fear.

  It will get worse, thought Fedorov. The train would slowly approach the war zone, and he expected to see much more military activity on the line, and much more human sorrow. Getting south to Kizlyar would not be easy once they left the main rail at Omsk. That is when he expected the most danger. It was not merely a question of miles now, but decades as well. To succeed he had to complete this perilous journey, find Orlov and get him safely to the Caspian coast, hoping that the rescue operation would appear to bring them all home. That failing… he could not go further into that darkness in his mind. They had to find them, Volsky’s team had to come. The world was depending on it.

  Chapter 3

  He woke from a troubled sleep with that same thought in mind—the world was depending on him—but the sound he heard outside made his blood run cold. He sat up in the darkness, blinking, his awareness keenly focused on the sound, like distant artillery fire, a low threatening rumble of thunder, yet impossibly far away, a strange echo of something vast and terrible—but what was it? For a brief moment he struggled to remember where he was… the long rail journey through the wilderness of Siberia…Ilanskiy… the hotel….