Shadow Pass ip-2

by Sam Eastland

  “Put me through to Comrade Stalin,” Pekkala told the secretary.

  “It is late,” replied Poskrebyshev.

  “No,” said Pekkala, “it is early.”

  Poskrebyshev’s voice disappeared with a click as he rerouted the call to Stalin’s residence.

  A moment later, a gruff voice came on the line. “What is it, Pekkala?”

  Pekkala explained what had happened.

  “Konstantin Nagorski has confessed to killing his father?” asked Stalin, as if he could not understand what he’d been told.

  “That is correct,” replied Pekkala. “He will be transferred to Lubyanka first thing in the morning.”

  “This confession—was it obtained in the same manner as the other?”

  “No,” said Pekkala. “It did not require force.” He looked at the mess of papers on Samarin’s desk. It seemed as if no one had touched them since the captain had died. In one corner stood a small framed picture of Samarin with a woman who must have been his wife.

  “Do you believe,” asked Stalin, “that this man Ushinsky really intended to hand over the T-34 to the Germans?”

  “No, Comrade Stalin. I do not.”

  “And yet you are telling me that one of the tanks has gone missing?”

  “That is also correct, but Ushinsky had nothing to do with it.” Pekkala heard the rustle of a match as Stalin lit himself a cigarette.

  “This is the second time,” growled Stalin, “that Major Lysenkova has provided me with faulty information.”

  “Comrade Stalin, I believe I can locate the missing T-34. I have narrowed the search to an area of dense woodland on the Polish border. It is a place called the forest of Rusalka.”

  “The tank is armed?”

  “Fully armed, Comrade Stalin.”

  “But there’s only one man! Is that what you are telling me? Can he operate it by himself?”

  “The process of driving, loading, aiming, and firing can be accomplished by a single person. The procedures take considerably more time, but—”

  “But the tank is just as dangerous in the hands of one person as it is with an entire crew of—how many is it?”

  “Four men, Comrade Stalin. And the answer is yes. One person who knows what he is doing can turn the T-34 into an extremely dangerous machine.”

  There was a silence. Then Stalin exploded. “I will send an entire infantry division to the area! The Fifth Rifles will do. I will also send the Third Armored Division. They don’t have T-34’s, but they can get in his way until he’s run out of ammunition. I don’t care how many men it takes to stop it. I don’t care how many machines. I’ll send the entire Soviet army after the bastard if I need to!”

  “Then you will give the Germans just the excuse they have been looking for.”

  There was another pause.

  “You may be right about that,” admitted Stalin, “but, whatever it costs, I will not allow that traitor to go free.”

  Pekkala heard the sound of Stalin exhaling. He imagined the gray haze of tobacco smoke around Stalin’s head.

  “There is a special detachment specializing in irregular warfare. It’s run by a Major Derevenko. They are a small group. We could send them instead.”

  “I am glad to hear it, Comrade Stalin.”

  There was a clatter as Stalin put down the receiver and then picked up a second telephone. “Get me Major Derevenko of the irregular warfare detachment in Kiev,” Pekkala heard him command. “Why not? When was that? Are you sure? I did?” Stalin slammed the phone down. A second later he was back on the line with Pekkala.

  “Derevenko has been liquidated. The irregular warfare detachment was disbanded. I can’t send in the army.”

  “No, Comrade Stalin.”

  “Then you are suggesting I simply allow the attack to go ahead?”

  “My suggestion is that you allow me to go out there and stop him.”

  “You, Pekkala?”

  “I will not be completely alone,” he explained. “My assistant will accompany me, and there is one other man. His name is Maximov.”

  “You mean the one who helped Kropotkin steal the tank?”

  “Yes. He has agreed to cooperate.”

  “And you need this man?”

  “I believe he is our best chance of negotiating with Kropotkin.”

  “And what if Kropotkin won’t negotiate?”

  “Then there are other measures we can take.”

  “Other measures?” asked Stalin. “What sorcery have you got planned, Pekkala?”

  “Not sorcery. Tungsten steel.”

  “A new weapon?”

  “Yes,” replied Pekkala. “It is still in the experimental stage. We will be testing it before we leave.”

  “Why haven’t I heard about this?”

  “As with most things, Comrade Stalin, Nagorski ordered it to be kept secret.”

  “But not from me!” Stalin roared into the phone. “I am the keeper of secrets! There are no secrets kept from me! Do you remember what I told you about those rumors British intelligence was spreading? That we are planning to attack Germany across the Polish border? The Germans believe those rumors, Pekkala, and that is exactly what they will think is happening if you don’t stop this tank! Our country is not ready for a war! So this had better work, Pekkala! You have forty-eight hours to stop the machine. After that, I am sending in the army.”

  “I understand,” said Pekkala.

  “Did you know,” asked Stalin, “that I also have a son named Konstantin?”

  “Yes, Comrade Stalin.”

  Stalin sighed into the receiver, the sound like rain in Pekkala’s ears. “Imagine,” he whispered, “to be killed by your own flesh and blood.”

  Before Pekkala could reply, he heard the click of Stalin hanging up the phone.

  AS THE SUN ROSE ABOVE THE TREES, PEKKALA SQUINTED THROUGH A pair of binoculars at the far end of the muddy proving ground. Trapped like a fly in the filaments of the binoculars’ ranging grid was the vast hulk of a T-34, a white number 5 painted on the side of its turret.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready,” replied Kirov. He lay on the ground, the stock of the PTRD tucked into his shoulder and the barrel balanced on its tripod.

  “Fire,” said Pekkala.

  A stunning crash filled the air. Two bright red flashes spat from the side of the T-34’s turret, followed by a puff of smoke. When the smoke had cleared, Pekkala could see a patch of bare metal where the bullet had struck, obliterating half of the white number. He lowered the binoculars. “What happened?”

  It was Gorenko who replied. “The bullet struck at an angle. It was deflected.”

  Kirov still lay on the ground, his mouth open and eyes wide, stunned by the concussion of the gun. “I think I broke my jaw,” he mumbled.

  “You hit it, anyway,” replied Pekkala.

  “It doesn’t matter whether you hit it or not,” said Gorenko. “The shot must be perfect in order to penetrate the hull. The armor at that point is seventy millimeters thick.”

  “Look, Professor,” said Kirov, lifting another bullet from beside the gun. “What happens to one of those machines if it is fired on in battle?”

  “That depends,” Gorenko replied matter-of-factly, “on what you’re shooting at it. Bullets just bounce off. They won’t leave any more of a dent than a fingerprint on a cold slab of butter. Even some artillery shells can’t get through. It makes a hell of a noise, but that’s better than what happens if a shell gets through the hull.”

  “And what does happen if a shell gets through?”

  Gorenko took the bullet from Kirov’s hand and tapped the end of it with his finger. “When this round hits a vehicle,” he explained, “it is traveling at 1,012 meters per second. If it gets inside, the bullet begins to bounce around.” He turned the bullet slowly, so that it seemed to cartwheel first one way and then another. “It strikes a dozen times, a hundred, a thousand. Everyone inside will be torn to pieces, as thoroughly as if th
ey had been cut apart with butcher knives. Or it will strike one of the cannon shells and the tank will explode from the inside out. Trust me, Inspector Kirov, you do not want to be in a tank when one of these comes crashing through the side. It shreds the metal of a hull compartment into something that looks like a giant bird’s nest.”

  “Try it again,” Pekkala told Kirov.

  Once more, Kirov fitted the gun stock against his shoulder. He slid back the breech, ejected the empty cartridge, and placed a new round in the chamber.

  “This time,” said Gorenko, “aim for the place where the turret joins the chassis of the tank.”

  “But that gap can’t be more than a couple of centimeters wide!” said Pekkala.

  “We did not design this machine,” said Gorenko, “so that what you are trying to do would be easy.”

  Kirov nestled the side of his face against the cheek pad. He closed one eye and bared his teeth. His toes dug into the ground.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” said Pekkala.

  The words were not even out of his mouth when a bolt of flame shot out of the end of the gun. The air around them seemed to shudder.

  When the smoke cleared from around the tank, another stripe of silver showed at the base of the turret.

  Gorenko shook his head.

  In the distance, the squat shape of the T-34 seemed to mock them.

  “It’s useless,” muttered Pekkala. “We will have to think of something else.”

  Kirov climbed to his feet and slapped the dirt off his chest. “Maybe it’s time we called in the army. We’ve done everything we can do.”

  “Not everything,” said Gorenko.

  Both men turned to look at him.

  “Even Achilles had his heel,” said the professor, reaching into his pocket and pulling out another cartridge for the PTRD. But this one was not like the others. Instead of the dull metal of tungsten steel, the bullet gleamed like mercury. “This is a mixture of titanium tetrachloride and calcium,” explained Gorenko. “It was invented by a man named William Kroll, only a few years ago, in Luxembourg. There is less than a kilo of the stuff in existence. Ushinsky and I obtained some for our experiments.” He tossed the bullet to Kirov. “I have no idea what will happen. It has never been tested before.”

  “Load the gun,” said Pekkala.

  At the next shot, there was no red flash. Instead, a small black spot appeared in the side of the turret. They heard a faint crackling sound, but that was all.

  “Nothing,” muttered Kirov.

  “Wait,” replied Gorenko.

  A moment later, a strange bluish glow outlined the T-34. Then the turret of the tank rose into the air, hoisted on a pillar of flame. A wave of concussion spread out from the machine, flattening the grass. When the wall struck Pekkala, he felt as if he had been kicked in the chest.

  The turret spun slowly in the air, as if it weighed nothing at all, then fell to earth with a crash that shook the ground beneath their feet. Thick black smoke billowed from the guts of the machine. More explosions sounded, some deep like thunder and others thin and snapping as the ammunition detonated in the blazing machine.

  Kirov stood up and slapped Pekkala on the back. “Now you’ve got to admit it!”

  “Admit what?” Pekkala asked suspiciously.

  “That I’m a good shot! A great shot!”

  Pekkala made a quiet grumbling noise.

  Kirov turned to Gorenko, ready to congratulate him on the success of the titanium bullet.

  But Gorenko’s face was grim. He stared at the wreckage of the T-34. “All this work bringing them to life,” he murmured. “It’s hard to see them killed that way.”

  The smiles faded from their faces, as they heard the sadness in the old professor’s voice.

  “How many more of those titanium bullets have you got?” asked Pekkala.

  “One.” Gorenko pulled the other bullet from his pocket and put it in Pekkala’s open hand.

  “Can you make others?” said Pekkala.

  “Impossible.” Gorenko shook his head. “What you hold in your hand is all the titanium left in the country. If you miss with that, you will have to resort to something altogether more crude.”

  “You mean you have something else?” asked Kirov.

  “It is a last resort.” Gorenko sighed. “Nothing more.” He disappeared back into the assembly building. A moment later he reappeared carrying what looked like a wicker picnic basket. He set it down in front of the investigators and lifted the lid. Inside, separated by two wooden slats, were three wine bottles. The bottles had been sealed with pieces of cloth instead of corks. These hung down over the lip of each bottle and were held in place by black plumber’s tape wound several times around the glass.

  Gorenko removed one of the bottles and held it up. “This is a mixture of paraffin, gasoline, sugar, and tar. The cloth stopper on each bottle has been soaked in acetone and allowed to dry. To use this, you light the cloth, then throw the bottle at the tank. But your throw must be very precise. The bottle must land on the top of the engine grille compartment. There are vents on the grille, and the burning liquid will pour down onto the engine. It should set the engine on fire, but even if it doesn’t it will melt the rubber hoses connected to the radiator, the fuel injection, and the air intake. It will stop the tank.”

  “But only if I can get close enough to throw that bottle onto the engine,” said Kirov.

  “Exactly,” replied Gorenko.

  “For that, I practically have to be on top of the machine.”

  “I told you it was a last resort,” said Gorenko, as he replaced the bottle in the wicker container.

  Before they parted company, Gorenko pulled Pekkala aside.

  “Can you get a message to Ushinsky?” he asked.

  “Depending on how this mission goes,” replied Pekkala, “that is a possibility.”

  “Tell him I’m sorry we argued,” said Gorenko. “Tell him I wish he was here.”

  THEY HAD BEEN DRIVING FOR TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. KIROV AND Pekkala worked in three-hour shifts as they traveled towards the Polish border. Maximov sat in the back, his hands cuffed tightly together.

  It was Kirov who had insisted on the cuffs.

  “Are you sure that’s necessary?” asked Pekkala.

  “It’s standard procedure,” replied Kirov, “for the transportation of prisoners.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Maximov told Pekkala. “After all, I’m not helping you because I have decided that you’re right. The only reason I’m here is to save the life of Konstantin Nagorski.”

  “Whether I trust you or not,” said Kirov, “is not the thing that’s going to change Kropotkin’s mind.”

  It was spring now, a season which, at home in Moscow, Pekkala noticed only in the confined space of Kirov’s window boxes, or stuffed into tall galvanized buckets in the open-air market in Bolotnaya Square or when the Yeliseyev store set out its annual display of tulips arranged in the shape of a hammer and sickle. But here, it was all around him, like a gently spinning whirlwind, painting the black sides of the Emka with luminous yellow-green dust.

  They were fortunate to have missed the time known as the Rasputitsa, when snow melted and roads became rivers of mud. But there were still places where their route disappeared into lakes, reappearing on the far bank and stubbornly unraveling across the countryside. Out in the middle of these ponds, tilting signposts seemed to point the way into a universe below the water’s edge.

  The detours cost them hours, following paths which did not exist on their maps, and even those which did exist sometimes ended inexplicably while according to the map they carried on like arteries inside a human body.

  On their way, they flew through villages whose white-picket-fenced gardens flickered past them as if in the projection of a film.

  They stopped for fuel at government depots, where the oil-soaked ground was tinted with rainbows. Half hidden behind heaps of rubber tires left to rot beside the depot, the milky purple blossoms of hy
acinth cascaded from the hedges. The scent of them mingled with the reek of spilled diesel.

  Depots on the Moscow Highway were a hundred kilometers apart. The only way fuel could be obtained from them was with government-issued coupons. To prevent these coupons from being sold on the black market, each one was made out to the individual to whom they were issued. At each depot, Kirov and Pekkala checked to see whether Kropotkin had cashed in any of his coupons. They turned up nothing.

  “What about depots off the highway?” Pekkala asked one depot manager, a man with a fuzz of stubble on his cheeks like a coating of mold on stale bread.

  “There are none,” replied the manager, removing his false teeth and polishing them on his handkerchief before replacing them in his mouth. “The only way to get fuel is from these depots or through the local commissariats, who issue it for use in farm machinery. If the driver of a heavy truck tried to requisition fuel from a commissariat, he would be turned down.”

  Kirov held up the bundle of fuel coupons which the manager had given him to inspect. “Could any of these have come from the black market?”

  The manager shook his head. “Either you have a pass book allowing you to requisition fuel for government use, as you do, or you have coupons, like everyone else. If you have coupons, each one has to be matched up with the identity card and driver’s license of the person requisitioning the fuel. I’ve been doing this job for fifteen years, and believe me, I know the difference between what’s real and what is fake.”

  While the manager filled up their car, Pekkala opened the Emka’s trunk and stared at the shortwave radio provided by Gorenko. It was the same type to be used in T-34’s, enabling them to communicate with artillery and air support groups out of normal radio range at the front. If the mission was successful, they could use it to transmit a message to an emergency channel monitored by the Kremlin before the forty-eight-hour deadline was up. Otherwise, as Stalin had promised, thousands of motorized troops would be dispatched to the Polish border.

  Beside this radio lay the ungainly shape of the PTRD. The more Pekkala stared at it, the less it looked to him like a weapon and more like a crutch for some lame giant. He kept the titanium bullet in the pocket of his waistcoat, fastened shut with a black safety pin.