9 Days Falling, Volume I k-5

by John A. Schettler

  “The darker the better,” said Sutherland, smearing grease on his cheekbones under the eyes.

  “They’ll be coming soon enough,” Haselden was certain. “We’re here a good two hours ahead of them by my reckoning.”

  “Yes, Captain, but we’re just three men! There were nine trucks in that column. That’s could hold whole bloody company of NKVD.”

  “They weren’t all soldiers. Lots of women and children were herded onto those trucks, just as we saw when we made that rush. The rest turned and ran south when Jerry showed up.”

  “Well enough,” said Sutherland. “Then suppose they have two or three full squads. What then? We can bushwhack ‘em at this bridge here, but what good will that do? They’ll deploy to flank us and that will be the end of it.”

  “These are good positions,” said Haselden. “Sergeant Terry on overwatch, the two of us on maneuver as before.”

  “Terry is good on the Bren, but he won’t be able to keep three squads at bay for long.”

  “If they have that many,” Haselden enjoined.

  “I say we blow the bridge while we can,” Sutherland insisted. “Take that out and they’ll have to ford the river on foot, and the water is chest high. Then we might get them at a disadvantage in mid-stream and thin out the odds. They won’t be expecting an ambush like this.”

  “Right, well don’t get trigger happy and put a bloody bullet through our man.” Haselden took a deep breath, looking tired and beset.

  “What’s up, Jock? Under the weather?”

  “Can’t say as I know,” said Haselden. “Feeling a bit stretched and thin is all. Nothing a good meal and a proper night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.”

  “Same for us all,” said Sutherland.

  But John Haselden was feeling something more that night, and thin and stretched was a good part of it. He had the odd feeling that something was strangely off its kilter, the world gone awry, and that it had something to do with him, though he could not put his finger on the problem.

  Spread thin, that was it, like too little butter over bread, and no jam. The strange notion that he was not supposed to be here kept gnawing at the back of his mind, though he could not say why. Perhaps it was just this place, he thought. He should be way off south, back in Egypt where he felt at home in the heat and sand of the desert. This mess of a marshland seemed to chill his bones, even though the night was not all that cold. Yet, try as he might, he could not shake the feeling that he was trespassing on ground he was never meant to tread. It was not the simple danger of an operation behind lines. That was his stock in trade. No. It was something else, but he could not get his fist around it, and it irked him in a quiet inner place where he held his thoughts close.

  Haselden was a zombie, as Alan Turing might explain it, ill at ease in the land of the living souls in their primary lease on life. He should be dead and buried in that desert sand, killed in the raid on Tobruk that was cancelled to bring him here to this place. Operation Agreement had been stayed, and now he had some unknown pact with the cold hand of fate instead, and he could feel its clammy touch on the back of his neck. This mission, and this time, was another kind of Lend-Lease—a gift of time that kept him breathing the still night air, finger on the trigger of his 9mm Sten gun, boots in the mud as they sat there behind their cover, a man who should be dead, yet alive. He knew something of that on one level, a strange intuition that harried him and, as he watch the night eat at that Hunter’s Moon these last several days he had the distinct feeling that it was eating away his own life and soul as well. He was feeling just like that old Studebaker truck, out of fuel, yet still on the road and pressed into service in dire need.

  Haselden shook himself, rubbing a cramp from his shoulder. “Alright, Davey boy, let’s have it your way. Get your charges set. I’ll sit overwatch while you work.”

  “That’s a good play, Jock.” Sutherland wanted the bridge down and the river a good defensive barrier that he knew the Russians would have to try and cross if they wanted to get south. There was nothing north of them for miles and miles, so it was south or nothing for this column of NKVD and the rabble they had herded into those trucks. He nodded, clapping the Captain on that same stiff shoulder and tossing him some hardtack.

  “Chew on that sea biscuit a while, Jock. It’ll do you some good.” Then he was off, haversack in one hand with demo charges as he began making a stealthy approach to the bridge. He was going to have to get wet again, but that was just par for this course. In a minute he was down under the bridge, fixing his charges and rolling back the wire, to a place of concealment. He knew that the moment he blew the charges the column would hear the explosion if they were close. He only hoped Haselden was correct and that they had a good two hour lead on the Russians.

  His jaw set, he leaned forward on the plunger and heard the hard snap as the signal triggered a firing pin. Then there was a sharp boom and the bridge went up. He used just enough explosive to knock down the center bridge support and leave a nice big hole there that no vehicle could get around on the narrow wood bridge. Then, when he was certain that there was no one near at hand, he went down to survey his work, nodding to himself with some small satisfaction. He didn’t get wet again for nothing.

  Back with Haselden the two men settled in to the cover to wait out the approach of the NKVD column. “You figure they heard that?”

  “If they were within three miles, perhaps,” said Haselden. “Otherwise I think we pulled it off without a hitch. Good show, Lieutenant.”

  “Just one for 30 Commando,” said Sutherland with a smile. He pulled his service jacket a little tighter against the chill night air, glad he had removed it before he went into the river. It was the only thing he had that was dry now. “Say Jock,” he said. “What’s so special about this man Orlov?”

  “You heard Seventeen in the briefing. They think he’s off some bloody ship that’s been giving the Navy fits in the Med. That’s all I could make of it.”

  “Right…Well he says we’re to bag this chap and bring him back whole, and at any cost, mind you. I’ll not be indelicate to say that means you and me. We’re expendable, and I don’t know about you but I’ve grown rather fond of looking at myself in the mirror for a shave.”

  “And cracked more than a few with that mug of yours, Sutherland. It’s the mission that matters; nothing else. When has it ever been any different, Davey? We’re given a job and we do what we’re told.”

  “Or die trying.” Sutherland repeated Seventeen’s admonishment when he handed them the mission. “Well if this Orlov is so important, you would think they might put a few more men on the job.”

  “That thought did cross my mind, but Seventeen says the up and ups want it done nice and quiet like. After all, we can’t run about with a full company of the lads out here, can we. These are supposed to be our allies. So they picked you and me, Davey, and the good Sergeant Terry over there with his Bren.” He nodded to Terry’s position on the other side of the road where he had the best arcs of fire to cover the bridge.

  “They want it done nice and quiet like.” Sutherland shook his head, looking at his watch. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and they they’ll camp out and call it a night when they see my handiwork on that bridge, eh? Then we can put on the black face and creep on over to see what’s up with this Orlov.”

  “Hush up!” Haselden was suddenly tense and alert. “You hear that?” They could hear the sound of voices in the distance.

  They were coming.

  Chapter 26

  “Open that door!” The tall grey eyed man was adamant, pointing at the door, a suspicious look in his eye.

  “But sir, that is just the upper landing for an old, unused stairway. It isn’t used any longer.”

  “Someone is there, I tell you. I heard knocking on that door just a moment ago.”As if on cue there came another knock, soft and plaintive, and a muffled voice. The innkeeper’s eyes widened when he heard it, as though it was the ghostly hand of a specter knocking, and h
e was clearly distressed.

  “Open it, I tell you! This is a matter of wartime security! I am giving you a direct order, and if you do not comply I will have military police commandeer this entire facility!”

  Captain Ivan Volkov was not happy. He had traveled a very long way in the last few days, a long and frustrating journey in search of the man Kamenski had told him to find and shadow. He left the meeting with Inspector General Kapustin and the old Deputy Director of the KGB invigorated with a new mission. He was to find this former Lieutenant Navigator, Anton Fedorov, who had risen so dramatically in the ranks to the position of Starpom of the fleet’s finest ship—and this in just a few weeks time. It was unheard of! After their confrontation with the ship’s Captain over the clear discrepancies in their cover story, Volkov had been angered and amazed at Kapustin’s complete capitulation.

  This business with the secret letter found in the Naval Logistics Building in Vladivostok was all a ruse, he thought. He allowed that bastard Karpov to walk all over him. Perhaps Kapustin had heard the rumors about Karpov and had come to fear him, as many others have during the Captain’s meteoric rise. But I’m not afraid of him. The outrageous story he foisted off to excuse these grievous transgressions did not impress me one bit. Karpov was hiding something all along, and I’m going to find out exactly what it is.

  When he discovered the list of casualties and MIAs was completely bogus, he finally had the wedge he needed to confront the devious Captain. Then, the missing tactical nuclear warhead would become the icing on his cake. He would get Karpov one way or another now, of that he was certain.

  Yet at the moment his mission was to find this upstart ex-navigator, Fedorov. He had men shadowing him to the Primorskiy Engineering Center three nights ago. A group of men were seen leaving that building with a radiation safe container, and Volkov believed he knew what it contained—the missing nuclear warhead! He gave orders that the truck was to be followed, and was not surprised when he learned it was heading for the airport. His men had searched the Engineering Center that night to locate Fedorov, but he was not found. There were only so many ways to get anywhere from Vladivostok. If Fedorov was not with the group that went to the airport, then where was he? He was and clearly not aboard Kirov, which had left port hours before he was last seen.

  He must have arranged some secret way out of the building that night, thought Volkov, or perhaps his men were too sloppy. He could be holed up in a safe house in Vladivostok right now, or he might have found a way to rendezvous with Kirov at sea. There were any number of possibilities, and Volkov had men working on every angle. In the meantime, he had orders to scour the Trans-Siberian rail, every depot, every station, and that is exactly what he was doing.

  The route had taken him up through Khabarovsk and then west through Irkutsk. Thus far there had been no sign or trace of Fedorov—no ticketing information, no booking data at any hotel or inn along the route, and Volkov had his team of five security men check them all. He even had one man assigned to review the security camera footage at every station, but thus far no shadow of Fedorov had been seen.

  Now he was getting angry, and his position as a Captain in the Naval Intelligence Division gave him enough clout to throw his weight around and cause a good deal of trouble. He could easily intimidate the menial servants in the civilian infrastructure, particularly as war seemed imminent now and military authority would soon trump all else. He had left Irkutsk early in the morning and was now just east of Krasnoyarsk, checking an old railway inn before rejoining the train at Ilanskiy. It had been a long and frustrating journey—until now.

  Volkov had interviewed the proprietor, surveyed the lower level, and was up on the second floor checking each room. The innkeeper was not happy about this, but Volkov told him that he was seeking a dangerous man and had the full authority of the military behind him, determined. Then he heard what seemed like a rumbling sound, which seemed to produce a very worrisome reaction from the innkeeper.

  “What was that?” he asked sharply.

  “What? You mean that old plumbing? This is a very old inn, Captain. It was built before the first revolution. It does that all the time.”

  Volkov pursed his lips, still suspicious. He knew men well. He had ferreted out every sort of weasel and gopher imaginable, like a well trained guard dog unerringly following the scent. He knew liars too, having heard every excuse, obfuscation, and deception possible. And Volkov could tell, instinctively, when a man was afraid, when he was hiding something, when he was worried. The innkeeper was lying, and he pressed him on the matter at once.

  “Old plumbing, eh? Where does that door lead?”

  “Oh, that goes nowhere. It is not used. We keep it permanently locked now.”

  Then they heard it—that plaintive knock on the door at the top of the stairs. The Captain flashed his teeth in a wry smile. “Not used, you say? Then who is knocking?” He turned to the innkeeper, clearly annoyed.

  “Open that door!” The tall grey eyed Captain was adamant, pointing at the door, a suspicious look redoubled in his eye.

  “But sir, that is just the upper landing for an old, unused stairway. It isn’t used any longer!”

  “Someone is there, I tell you. I heard knocking on that door just a moment ago.”As if on cue there came another knock, soft and plaintive, and a muffled voice. The innkeeper’s eyes widened when he heard it, as though it was the ghostly hand of a specter knocking, and he was clearly distressed.

  “Open it, I tell you! This is a matter of wartime security! I am giving you a direct order, and if you do not comply I will have military police commandeer this entire facility. Understand?”

  “As you wish, as you wish…” the innkeeper, a gray haired old man, began fumbling with his keys, his hand trembling as he then unlocked the door.

  Volkov reached to his side holster, removing his service pistol as the old man unlatched a safety bolt and slowly twisted the door knob, an anguished look on his face. The door opened with a dry squeak on its rusty hinges, and there came a dank, stuffy odor, as from an old closet that had not been opened for ages. The innkeeper gave a start, hand clutching his breast when he saw someone standing on the upper landing. “Dear God, not again,” he whispered, but Volkov quickly shoved him aside.

  “You there, come out,” he commanded, brandishing his pistol.

  A Young man, strangely dressed, emerged from the shadows of the landing with a bemused expression on his face. He looked at Volkov’s pistol; saw the steely eyes of the man, then the innkeeper’s obvious fear and discontent. He spoke in a halting fashion, his speech tentative, as though he were searching for the words. “I’m very sorry…I was just looking for my room.”

  “Come out of there,” Volkov ordered, eying the darkened stairs suspiciously to make certain no one else was there. The old stairway was completely dark descending into velvety black shadows in just a few steps. “You are a guest here? What room number?”

  “Excuse me?” The young man seemed flustered. “Oh yes…Room 214. Just down the hall.”

  Volkov turned to the innkeeper. “You know this man?”

  The old man’s eyes clearly revealed his uncertainty, and fear. Volkov’s suspicions ticked up a notch as he watched the man closely. “Well? Is he a guest here or not?”

  “I am not certain. He could have been checked in by my daughter when I was in town getting food for the kitchen.”

  The young man could see there was a problem, and the tall grey coated man with the pistol appeared to be a police officer or security man, so he began explaining, again with halting speech, uncertain of the words, and Volkov immediately knew he was not Russian.

  “I was in the dining room with my guide for breakfast when that light flashed in the sky—some kind of explosion. Did you see it?”

  “Explosion? What are you talking about? Step away from that stairway—yes, over here by the wall where I can get a good look at you. You say you were with a guide? Was anyone else with you just now? Answer truly.
This is a matter of state security.”

  “I met others in the dining room, but no, sir. I am traveling alone.”

  Volkov gave him a knowing look. Another liar, he thought. The man was obviously flustered, very nervous. He was trying to hide something.

  “You are a tourist? A foreigner?”

  “Yes, from England.”

  Volkov smiled. “Not a very good place to be from these days,” he said darkly. “At least not here. I will need to see your passport at once. What is your name?” Volkov lowered his pistol, seeing there was no real threat from this impish young man.

  “My name? I am Thomas Byrne, sir, a reporter for the Times of London. I’m just here to cover the Great Race.” He made as if to drive a car, turning the wheel back and forth in a pantomime. “I was interviewing the German team just last night when they came in.” The young man forced a smile, but Volkov was not impressed.

  “Race?” The Captain turned to the innkeeper. “What is this man talking about? Is there some event underway here?”

  “Not that I know of, sir.” The innkeeper gave the young man a strange look, noting the watch fob on his tweed sports coat, the old style wool trousers and the mud caked on his boots. “You came up this stairway, young man?”

  “Yes…but I was just trying to find my room…” He blinked, looking about him now as though he were lost.

  It had been a very strange morning. He was up early that day, chancing upon that energetic fellow in the dining room for breakfast, Mironov. The man had warned him about this. He told him all foreigners were suspect and that he was surely being watched. One look at this tall, grey-eyed man in a military coat and hat convinced him Mironov was not joking. Then came the incredible light, the sudden wild wind, and the thrumming shock wave in the air that had broken all the windows. He and his guide had hurried outside with Mironov and found the townspeople, those that were awake at that hour, dumbly staring to the northeast. When he looked he saw a terrible fire in the sky, as though a massive forest fire were burning up all of Siberia. What could have happened?