9 Days Falling, Volume I k-5

by John A. Schettler

  “Very well, sir,” Byrne stammered. “You can rely on me, sir.” He made a slow retreat to the frosted glass door and slipped out, back in the hall before he ran his hand through his thick sandy blonde hair and straightened the fold of his brown herringbone tweed coat. Siberia! Where in the world was he going? He had a thousand things to do before the morning came. He had to settle his rent with Mrs. Jameson and see if she would be willing to hold his flat for a few months or even longer. Those extra fifty pounds in gold coinage would make for easy inducement. He was sure he had no worries there. She could see to his mail, and notify anyone who came along as to his whereabouts.

  Beyond that, he had to consider the journey itself. What would he need? Harmsworth's comment about a pair of good boots made perfect sense. And he resolved to head over to Ponsy's Clothiers and footwear at once. He would need a heavier coat, his own being quite threadbare these days. Gloves, scarves, sweaters, wool trousers and socks, warm long underwear, a decent hat or two…The list ran through his mind now. And he would have to pack a respectable Dopp Kit as well: comb and brush, shaving kit, shampoo, razors, nail clippers, cologne, some Calox tooth powder, a few good bars of soap and an extra pair of specs. Should he pick up one of those nifty Clarke's Pyramid Food warmers—good for hot water, tea, warming up small tidbits of food or even use as a convenient night lamp? Perhaps an authentic Samovar in Russia would do just as well, and be much cheaper in the bargain.

  He remembered an advertisement he had seen in the paper the other day—Mappins & Webb Newmarket Crocodile Suitcase fitted with every requirement for the gentlemen. It was all of forty-five pounds, however, and well beyond his means, even counting in the hundred-fifty pounds he was to receive in the morning. He would have to use his old luggage, but that decided, the excitement of this imminent voyage began to well in him.

  He remembered how he had hurried down the long hallway, practically floating down the steps, his fears allayed, his heart lightened and the thirst for adventure and discovery on him. Yet as he hastened past the front desk he spied a headline that roused a faint stirring of unrest in him. “The Fatal Journey of Mylius Erichsen,” read the headline. The story was being written by another staff writer, about the Danish author and arctic explorer noted for his expeditions mapping out the coasts and fiords of Greenland—the 'Land That Is Lonelier Than Ruin.' He had been misled by an older map, became lost, and perished from lack of food before he could right the error and safely navigate his way home.

  Where in the world am I going? Again the question roiled to life in his mind. Siberia? He could vanish into that wilderness and never be seen or heard from again. A staff writer would pen his thin eulogy: “The Fatal Journey of Thomas Byrne,” and that would be the end of him—the end of all his ambitions, his dreams of success as a writer, his hope for love, family, children in some warm distant future he could scarcely even imagine now.

  Yes, he thought. I could be swallowed alive by the frozen taiga, or end up in the belly of a big Siberian wolf! I might flounder in a muddy bog, or be eaten alive by mosquitoes when the land thaws. I might be waylaid on the road by a band of bloody, heartless Cossacks. It was enough to rattle the nerves of even the most hardy and manly people he could imagine. Yes, all of that could happen, or worse. He could not have known what actually would happen to him, something more outlandish than he could even imagine.

  But not today… Today he was sitting in a hotel dining room in a small town east of Krasnoyarsk, as far east as he could get, just as Harmsworth had urged him. He had already interviewed the leading American race team on the speedy ‘Thomas Flyer’ car. They had stolen a march on the Germans and had pushed on to Tomsk to the east two days ago. The Germans were in second place, 234 miles behind as they pulled into Ilanskiy late the previous evening, and they were all undoubtedly still sleeping in their rooms upstairs at this very moment. It was a quiet morning, the days impossibly long with the sun rising at a little past three in the morning, local time, because at the 60th parallel they were as far north as Anchorage Alaska or Scapa Flow above Scotland back home.

  Then, as he leaned in to listen to this strange young Russian man who called himself Mironov, Byrne saw an impossibly bright light fill the room, instinctively raising his arm to shield his eyes.

  “What in God’s name—” There came a loud roar in the distance, an awful tearing sound as if the sky itself had been ripped open and something came burning through, a wild, scintillating light in the heavens, brighter than the morning sun. They heard a tremendous explosion, and minutes later a violent wind was blowing outside, sending a hail of debris flying as the dining room windows shattered. Mironov jumped at the sound, covering his head, his face nearly in the remnant of his boiled eggs and porridge. The Uzbek guide was so startled he fell right off his chair with a hard thump on the bare wood floor. There were frightened shouts outside, and cries from the second floor of the building where the German race team must have received a shocking wake up alarm. Byrne heard footfalls on the ceiling above and the sound of men clomping down the main stairs, speaking in loud, fearful voices: “Was fur ein gerausch? Was ist passiert? What is that sound? What is happening?”

  They were all up and rushing outside to join the startled townspeople near the rail yard, gaping at the sky to the northeast and shirking from a distant, deep rumble like thunderous artillery. Just a few seconds after they left, there were other footfalls on the back stairway and a man emerged, equally startled, holding a pistol out in front of him with fearful eyes. He stood there, taking in the dining room, the solitary table set for breakfast, the tea trembling in the half filled cup, the shards of broken glass…

  It was Fedorov.

  Chapter 8

  Admiral Volsky remembered how his pulse had raced when he heard that awful sound, flat and dull, a body falling on the hard concrete floor of the Naval Logistics Building. Someone else was there! Then he heard the sound of something being moved, his eyes widening as he tried to imagine the scene. He knew immediately what was happening. It was a body being dragged! There was another rattle of metal, a crisp zipping sound and someone grunting with physical effort. Then he heard a door of a metal bin close, and the clopping footfalls receded, echoing as they faded away.

  Silence…Dark, awful silence.

  Volsky waited, but he knew what had happened. He strained to hear more, the phone receiver pressed tightly to his ear. The Lieutenant he had sent to open Fedorov’s storage bin knew he was waiting on the line, and when the man did not return to the phone Volsky knew the worst.

  Someone else was there, he thought. Someone was waiting there! Did they know what we were doing or was this merely happenstance? No, it had to be planned. There might be a night watch at the building at that late hour, just after midnight, but he could think of no reason they would dare interfere with his Lieutenant. So it had to be someone else, but who? Who was curious about his ship and crew? He had his answer in a heartbeat, and he knew that the Inspector General and his meddlesome intelligence officer had to be behind this. Yes. That was the only scenario that made sense. It was Kapustin and his lap dog Captain Volkov. They had been rudely rebuffed in their effort to unravel the mystery of Kirov’s disappearance, and they were not happy about it. He had little doubt that they still had men watching the ship in those last hours before the fleet sailed, and they had probably shadowed Fedorov’s operation at the Primorskiy Engineering Center as well.

  He slowly put the receiver back in its cradle, and reached for another phone, thumbing a secure line, his pulse quickening.

  “Security,” came the voice.

  “Admiral Leonid Volsky here. Please send a detachment of five Marines to my office at once.”

  “Yes, sir… Is there a problem, Admiral?”

  “Five Marines, please, on the double.”

  “At once, sir.”

  The Admiral realized that if his adversaries were willing to do what he had just heard on the phone line, then his own life could be in jeopardy. He summone
d Marines that night, first for his own security, sending orders down to the staff that no one was to be admitted to the executive level of the building without his expressed approval and that anything unusual, any request for entrance by Naval Intelligence or military personnel, was to be reported to him immediately. He knew that battle lines were being drawn somewhere. Kapustin would not be able to challenge him alone. He would need the full weight of the Naval Intelligence Division and Internal Affairs to push anything. As a Fleet Admiral Volsky had tremendous power, controlling a wide range of military assets, and he intended to use them to defend himself and the mission they had planned, come what may.

  When the Marines arrived he told the Sergeant in charge to assemble a twenty man detachment and secure the Naval Logistics building in Vladivostok. Guards were to be posted, particularly on the floor with Fedorov’s storage bin. No one was to be admitted… absolutely no one. A phone call would be made nightly to the Sergeant at Arms there and a man would be quietly instructed by Volsky to check bin number 317. There would be no one lurking in the shadows from that day forward, not as long as he remained in command here.

  The following morning they discovered the Lieutenant he had sent to retrieve Fedorov’s message, if one was there. The man was found drugged and still groggy outside the “Kulmart” company department store a few blocks down from the old Logistics Building. He remembered nothing, and could provide no clue as to who had assailed him, how he got there, or what he was even supposed to be doing that night. A careful search of his person turned up no documents, though Volsky did not expect to find anything. It was obvious that the man had been searched before he was left there by the assailants and that anything he may have had was taken.

  So if there was a note from Fedorov, thought Volsky, then they know about it. Kapustin…He must have learned much more than they believed. That man was very thorough in the discharge of his duties, but what would he make of Fedorov’s note? It would seem an insignificant bit of nonsense and be dismissed, or so the Admiral believed. The operation now underway in the Caspian was another matter. If Kapustin had men watching the Primorskiy Engineering Center, then they would have seen the device they removed from the reactor test bed facility. They would have followed the column of trucks to the airport with some curiosity and great interest. The presence of a strong security team from Kirov would have aroused more than one suspicion, not to mention the radiation safe container the trucks were carrying to the big transport plane.

  Discrete inquiries would have turned up the destination—Uytash airfield at Kaspiysk on the west coast of the Caspian Sea. That would have raised more than a few eyebrows. If Naval Intelligence was involved, they would have assets in that region as well. Volsky had to assume that they would soon have men closely watching his detachment and reporting. Once Dobrynin and his Marines embarked for the offshore anchorage of the Anatoly Alexandrov they would be more secure. His adversaries would soon discover that his good friend Admiral Kamilov in command of the Caspian Flotilla was involved and they would double their watch. Wartime security measures would be a good cloak, but if Naval Intelligence got pushy they had a lot of clout. He urged Kamilov to beef up security and delay any attempt to interfere with the operation as long as possible.

  “I will do whatever I can, Leonid,” said Kamilov. “But if Moscow intervenes with a direct order…”

  “I understand,” said Volsky, hanging up the phone with deep misgivings. Yes, Moscow…what would they know about all of this, and when would they know it? Those questions weighed heavily on his mind now. For that matter, what did Kapustin know? The Admiral did not have long to wait. The following day he received a call from building security stating that the Inspector General was requesting permission to see him in his office. So the game was up. Volsky gave permission for Kapustin to come up to the executive level, alone, and he also made sure he had adequate security posted at every access point along the way.

  A few minutes later his Chief of Staff buzzed him to say his visitor had arrived and the Admiral seated himself at his desk, a revolver in the drawer close at hand should he need one. He did not think that Kapustin would consider doing anything extreme, but given the circumstances he was taking no chances.

  “Good day, Inspector,” said Volsky when the man finally entered. Kapustin nodded, with a wan smile and slowly removed his fedora. “Please be seated.” Volsky made as if everything was routine. “I assume this has something to do with your report on Kirov.”

  “That would be a good guess, Admiral,” said Kapustin. He seemed tired, a bit frazzled, as though he had not had much sleep.

  “May I offer you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.” Kapustin pinched the bridge of his nose, then got right to the point. “Admiral Volsky, I know you to be a very responsible officer, much admired, greatly respected.”

  “You are too kind, Inspector.”

  “Yes, well those pleasantries aside I thought I would deliver your mail this morning.” Kapustin reached slowly into his coat pocket, and the Admiral tensed up, his hand drifting to the edge of the drawer where his revolver was hidden. But Kapustin simply produced a plain white envelope, leaning forward and placing it on the desk. Volsky’s heart leapt as he eyed it, knowing exactly what it must be. He reached and took it up, seeing it had been opened, and noting how old and faded the seal was. He reached inside, slowly removing a small folded letter and opened it, immediately recognizing Fedorov’s handwriting.

  “Admiral Volsky… If you are reading this then know that we have arrived safely at our destination, and will now proceed with our mission to rescue Orlov at Kizlyar. Should circumstances permit it, look for us along the Caspian coast on or after October 15, 1942. May God be with you all. — Captain Anton Fedorov.” Another brief notation was added at the end: “Bukin failed to arrive. We hope he is safe with you.”

  Volsky smiled inwardly, elated that Fedorov had reached his destination safely. Now the only question was whether he could arrange his return. The events were mounting up in the Pacific, tension rising by the hour. The report he had received on the Tigr in the Gulf of Mexico was most disturbing, and he immediately called the commander of the Northern Fleet to see why the sub was sent there. The answer was equally disturbing, but not unexpected—Moscow had ordered it, ordered the deliberate destruction of one of the world’s largest offshore oil platforms, a facility critical to British Petroleum operations in the Gulf. And Moscow had ordered elements of the 58th Army to mobilize on the northern border of Kazakhstan as well. Moscow was holding a knife to all the vital energy centers the West depended on. He had little doubt that there would soon be an incident in the Persian Gulf as well.

  Yet for the moment he had another problem, Gerasim Kapustin, Inspector General of the Russian Navy. He looked at the man, wondering how much he really knew and what he was hoping to determine with this meeting. He decided to say nothing and let the other man make the next move. Kapustin was only too happy to oblige.

  “Care to explain that note?” he asked. “Care to explain what this Fedorov is doing on the Caspian coast, and how he could be seeking a man reported as killed in action during my inspection?”

  Volsky fixed him with a level stare, still wondering what he might know. “I’m afraid that there are certain matters I am not at liberty to discuss, Inspector.”

  “Yes, your Captain Karpov made that painfully clear the last time we spoke. Needless to say I took the liberty of discussing that note with someone who might know about this matter.”

  “It was you who ordered my Lieutenant waylaid in the dark at the Naval Logistics building?” Volsky’s displeasure was obvious on his face.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Your duties aside, Inspector, that was highly inappropriate. The man was assaulted and drugged. I could have you arrested this very moment for admission of your culpability in the matter—yes, even you, Inspector General of the Russian Navy. Your mandate extends only so far, particularly now in time of
imminent war. There are operations underway that you are not privy to, and you have interfered, rather violently, with a man who was operating under my direct orders.”

  “That I have.” Kapustin raised his chin, ready for battle. “And I must tell you that I am here to interfere further, unless I receive a full explanation of this situation. What you say is true, Admiral. My mandate is limited, but I have friends, even as you do, and some of them are in positions of considerable power.”

  “Let me repeat—” Volsky began, but Kapustin cut him off.

  “Yes, Yes, you are going to pretend this is all very top secret. I was inclined to believe your Captain when he used that line before. So I took the matter to someone who is privileged to know of these secret things, and I have yet another letter for you, Admiral.” He reached into his pocket and handed Volsky another plain folded paper.

  Volsky took it with some reluctance, wondering what was there. Could Kapustin have pushed this all the way to Moscow? Could he have rallied Suchkov to his side, or even the President or Prime Minister? Was he handing me orders from Moscow? He opened the paper and read the thin handwritten note silently.

  “Admiral Volsky, I ask you to please enlighten Inspector General Kapustin as to the nature of your recent operations aboard the battlecruiser Kirov and the importance of the current operation now underway in the Caspian. You may find his cooperation essential.

  - Pavel Kamenski, First Deputy Chairman, KGB, Ret.”

  “I was to give you one thing more,” said Kapustin, producing a faded photograph and handing it to the Admiral.