by Sam Eastland
Kropotkin disappeared around the other side of the tank. When he reappeared, an old man was with him. He was a short, bald man with narrow shoulders, wearing a collarless blue work shirt and heavy corduroy trousers. Pekkala knew it must be Zoya Maklarskaya’s father. Kropotkin had tied Maklarsky’s hands behind his back. Now he hauled the old man to the center of the clearing.
“You swore there would be gasoline here!” Kropotkin raged at his captive.
“There was!” The old man pointed at the empty fuel can. “I told you, they always leave some here for an emergency.”
“One fuel can is not enough!”
“It is if you’re driving a tractor,” protested Maklarsky. “You didn’t tell me how much you needed. You just asked if there was fuel.”
“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now,” said Kropotkin, taking a knife from his pocket.
“What are you going to do with that?” Maklarsky’s eyes were fixed on the blade.
“I’m letting you go, old man,” replied Kropotkin, “just like I promised.” He cut through the ropes and they fell like dead snakes to the ground. “Go on,” said Kropotkin, and gave him a shove.
But Maklarsky didn’t run. Instead, he turned and looked back at Kropotkin, motionless.
“Go on!” bellowed Kropotkin, folding the knife shut with a click and returning it to his pocket. “I don’t need you anymore.”
Slowly, Maklarsky began to walk out of the clearing, following the path which led to the main road.
Then the three men watched helplessly as Kropotkin drew a gun from his coat. The dry snap of a pistol echoed through the trees.
Maklarsky staggered forward. He did not seem to realize what had happened. Crookedly, he walked on a few more paces.
Kropotkin strode across the clearing. With the barrel of the gun touching the back of Maklarsky’s head, he pulled the trigger. This time, the old man dropped, so suddenly it looked as if the ground had swallowed him up.
Kropotkin returned to the tank. He climbed up onto the turret, whose hatch was already open, and dropped down inside the machine.
Pekkala realized that Kropotkin was preparing to move out, whether he had enough fuel or not. He nodded at Kirov.
Kirov unlocked the tripod from the barrel of the anti-tank rifle. He set it up and lay down behind the gun.
“Do you have a clear shot?” Pekkala asked.
“No,” replied Kirov, after he had squinted through the sights. “Too many trees in the way.”
“We’ll move around the side and stop him where the clearing meets the road,” Pekkala told him.
Kirov picked up the gun and the three men set off down the road, keeping inside the cover of the trees. They reached the place where the wide path intersected with the road. Here, they realized that the path from the clearing did not run straight out to the road. It curved to the left, so that the tank was out of sight. The only way Kirov would have a clear shot was if the tank drove out to the road.
Knowing they had little time to spare, the three men dashed across the road and slid down into the ditch on the other side. With trembling hands, Kirov set up the PTRD so that it was pointing directly down the path into the clearing. If Kropotkin tried to drive the T-34 out onto the road, Kirov would have a clear shot.
“Do you still think you can talk him out of it?” Pekkala asked Maximov.
“I doubt it, but I can probably buy you some time.”
“All right,” said Pekkala. “We’ll both go. We’ll have a better chance if we both try to reason with him, but if he won’t listen to us, get out of his way as fast as you can. He’s bound to head towards the road. He doesn’t want to get trapped in that clearing and he’s got nowhere else to go except down that path.”
“I don’t see how you can walk out there to face a tank with nothing more than words to shield yourself,” said Kirov.
Pekkala held out the titanium bullet. “If words don’t convince him, then maybe this will. No matter what happens, if you see an opportunity to take the shot, take it. Do you understand?”
“It’s a hell of a risk, Inspector.” Kirov took the bullet from his hand. “If this thing hits you, it will blow you to pieces.”
“That’s why I’m glad you’re a good shot.”
“At least you finally admitted it,” said Kirov, as he settled himself behind the gun.
Maximov and Pekkala set out towards the clearing.
Pekkala felt the open space around him as if it were a field of electricity. He saw the tank, hunched like a cornered animal at the clearing’s edge. With each step towards the iron monster, he felt his legs weaken. His breathing grew shallow and fast. He had never been so aware of the impossible fragility of his own body.
Leading away from the clearing, Pekkala saw woodsmen’s trails, too narrow for trucks, which snaked into the darkness of the forest. On one of these, a glint of silver caught his eye. Just off the path, partially camouflaged with branches, a motorcycle was propped against a tree. A pair of leather-padded goggles hung from the handlebars. The machine looked almost new and he could even see the maker’s name—Zundapp—emblazoned in silver on the teardrop-shaped fuel tank. In that moment, he realized it was the same machine he had seen the day Maximov had tried to gun him down outside the Cafe Tilsit. The motorcycle was the first indication Pekkala had seen that Kropotkin planned on surviving what he was about to do.
There was no sound except the fierce crackle of the flames still rising from the wreckage of the truck. Smoke swirled through bolts of sunlight which made their way down through the trees.
They reached the clearing, littered with strips of old bark from the logs which had been piled there by the foresters. Between them and the tank lay the body of the old man, facedown in the dirt, a tidy red circle in the pale blue cloth of his shirt.
The two men halted. The liquid from the bottle in Pekkala’s pocket sloshed as he came to a stop.
Now that he was only a few paces from the T-34, it seemed to Pekkala that his quarrel was no longer with Kropotkin but with the machine itself.
“Kropotkin!” shouted Maximov.
There was no reply. Instead, with a dreadful bellowing sound, the tank engine fired up. The noise was deafening. Two jets of smoke poured from its exhaust pipes. The T-34 lurched forward.
Instinctively, the two men stumbled back.
Suddenly the tank jerked to a stop, like a dog held by a chain.
“Kropotkin!” Pekkala called out. “We know you’re short of fuel. Just listen to us!”
But if his words reached through the layers of steel, the man in the tank gave no sign of having heard them.
The T-34 jolted towards them, spinning in its tracks. Mud and twisted shreds of bark sprayed out behind the machine. This time it did not stop.
“Run!” shouted Pekkala.
But Maximov was already on the move.
Pekkala turned and sprinted for the road. The bottle fell out of his pocket, but he did not stop to pick it up. He could feel the machine right behind him. He did not dare look back to see how close it was.
One moment Maximov was beside him, and the next he was gone as he dove away among the trees.
Pekkala kept running. The tank was almost on top of him. The weight of his coat held him back. His feet slipped on the muddy ground. With every gasp of breath, the acrid haze of burning rubber poured into his lungs.
He saw the main road straight ahead. He spotted Kirov in the tall grass growing along the edge of the ditch. The PTRD was aimed steadily at Pekkala.
The roaring grew louder. The tank gathered speed. Pekkala realized he would not make it to the road before the T-34 overtook him.
“Shoot!” he yelled.
The tank was closing on him, only a few paces behind.
“Shoot!” he screamed again.
And then he slipped. He barely had time to register that he had fallen before slamming into the ground.
A second later, the huge machine rolled over him, its tracks on either s
ide of his body, their terrible clatter filling his ears. Pekkala was sure he would be crushed, like some animal run over by a car.
As the belly of the tank slid past above him, Pekkala saw a flash from the PTRD, and then there was a stunning crash of metal as the titanium round struck the turret.
The treads of the T-34 locked. The machine slid to a halt. The engine clanked into neutral.
The shot must not have penetrated the hull, thought Pekkala. Kropotkin is still alive.
Now the tearing rattle of the T-34’s machine gun sounded above him. A line of bullets stitched across the ditch. The trees where Kirov had taken cover began to fly apart, revealing pale, naked slashes as the bark was torn away.
Pekkala heard footsteps behind him. Turning his head, he saw Maximov running out of the woods, clumps of mud flicking up from his heels. Clasped in his hand was a bottle of the explosive mixture, the rag end already lit and spilling greasy flames as he sprinted towards the tank.
“Get away!” Maximov shouted. “Damn it, Pekkala, get out while you can!” In a few more strides, he had reached the T-34 and immediately climbed up onto the engine grille.
Underneath the tank, Pekkala struggled through the mud, clawing at the ground to free himself before Maximov detonated the explosives. Scrambling clear, Pekkala heard a crash of glass as Maximov smashed the bottle. Then came a roar as burning liquid splashed through the engine grille and into the T-34’s motor compartment.
Pekkala heard Kropotkin scream inside the tank.
He didn’t look back. Pekkala had just raised himself up, ready to sprint towards the road, when a wall of concussion blew him off his feet. He landed heavily, facedown, the wind knocked out of him. In the next instant, a wave of fire washed over him, spreading like fingers over the ground and setting it alight.
“Get up!” Kirov waved to him from the ditch. “Inspector, it’s going to explode!”
Pekkala climbed to his feet and ran. Behind him, he could hear the crackle of ammunition bursting inside the machine. He threw himself down beside Kirov just as the muffled thump of superheated cannon shells thundered out of the tank.
Still slapping the sparks from his clothes, Pekkala raised his head and watched as the machine tore itself apart.
The T-34 was now engulfed in flames. Its gun ports glittered red as fire consumed first the driver’s, then the gunner’s compartment.
A few seconds later, when the remaining ammunition exploded, the top turret hatch blew off with a shriek of tearing steel. It tumbled like a blazing wheel into the woods, leaving a spray of molten paint in its path. Now, from the ruptured hull of the tank, brilliant orange geysers, tinged with black, reared up into the sky.
The air was filled with the smell of burning diesel fuel and pine sap from branches cut down by the T-34’s machine gun.
As smoke boiled from the wreckage, the T-34 no longer seemed like a machine to Pekkala. Instead, it looked more like a living thing writhing in agony.
When the explosions had finally died away, Pekkala and Kirov climbed cautiously out of the ditch, so mesmerized by the death throes of the T-34 that at first they did not see the line of men on horseback appearing from around a bend in the road.
The horses were moving at a canter, and the men had drawn rifles from the scabbards mounted on their saddles.
“Poles,” whispered Pekkala.
The squad of Polish cavalry rode up to them. The men carried their guns with barrels pointed upwards and the butt plates resting on their thighs. The officer of the troop, wearing a double-breasted black leather jacket and with a pistol on his belt, sat his horse and stared at the tank, which resembled the carapace of some huge and predatory insect, menacing even when the soul had been burned out of it. The officer looked at his men, all of whom were watching him for a sign of what to do next.
Pekkala and Kirov were completely surrounded by the horses. Not knowing what else to do, they raised their hands.
This drew the attention of the officer. He flapped his hand and grunted, to show that their gesture of surrender was not necessary.
Bewildered, Kirov and Pekkala lowered their hands.
Then one of the men, hidden somewhere in the ranks, began to laugh.
The officer’s head snapped up. At first he looked angry, but then a smile crept across his face. “Machine bust!” he said.
The others started laughing now. “Machine bust!” they all began to shout.
Bewildered, Kirov looked at Pekkala.
Pekkala shrugged.
Only when the laughter had died down did the cavalrymen replace their rifles in the scabbards.
The officer nodded at Pekkala. He said something in Polish, which Pekkala could not understand. Then he shouted an order and spurred his horse. The troop of cavalry began to move. The men were talking in the ranks, joking loudly and glancing back at the two men, but at a sharp command from their officer they immediately fell silent. Then there was only the clap of horses’ hooves as they passed on down the road.
The two men were alone again.
“What was that?” asked Kirov.
“I have no idea,” replied Pekkala.
They walked back to the tank. Scorched metal showed where fire had peeled away the paint. The engine grille sagged down onto the ruined motor parts, and the tires had melted into black puddles beside the tracks.
There was no sign of Maximov.
“I guess he didn’t make it,” Kirov said.
Pekkala prepared himself for the sight of Maximov’s shattered corpse. He wondered how much could be left of anyone caught in the path of such destruction. Bewildered, Pekkala glanced around the clearing, wondering if the fire had consumed the man completely.
In that moment, he realized that the Zundapp motorcycle was missing. He saw the line of motorcycle tracks, disappearing down one of the woodsmen’s trails. Then it dawned on Pekkala that Maximov was not dead at all. He had escaped, hidden by the wall of fire and the roar of exploding ammunition.
“I misjudged him,” said Kirov. “He died very bravely.”
Pekkala did not reply. He glanced at Kirov, then glanced away again.
They started walking back towards the Emka.
“How much time do we have?” asked Kirov.
“About an hour,” replied Pekkala. “I hope that radio works.” It was only now that he realized his coat was still smoldering. He swatted at his sleeves, smoke lifting like dust from the charred cloth.
“Good thing you have those new clothes I bought you.”
“Yes,” said Pekkala. “Lucky me.”
IF THERE WAS A BORDER CHECKPOINT AT THE EDGE OF THE RUSALKA forest, Maximov never saw it. The first indication he had that he was in a different country was when he rumbled through a village and saw a sign for a bakery written in Polish. Since then, he had not stopped. At fueling stations in the eastern part of the country, he had been able to pay for gasoline with the Russian money he was carrying in his wallet. But as he approached the border of Czechoslovakia, the locals stopped accepting Russian currency and he was forced to barter his watch, then a gold ring. Finally, he siphoned it out of other vehicles using a piece of rubber hose.
Now was the third day of Maximov’s journey. As the Zundapp crested the hill, sunrise winked off his goggles. He had been riding all night, coat buttoned up to his throat to fend off the chill as he raced across the Polish countryside. He pulled off the road and looked out over fields of newly sprouted barley, wheat, and rye. Feathers of smoke rose from the chimneys of solitary farmhouses.
Maximov could see the little checkpoint at the bottom of the hill and knew that all the land beyond was Czechoslovakia.
Seven minutes later, he arrived at the border. Like most of the crossings on these quiet secondary roads, the checkpoint consisted of a hut which had been divided into two, with a red-and-white-striped boom across the road which could be raised and lowered by the guards.
A bleary-eyed Czech border guard shuffled out to meet him. He held out his hand fo
r Maximov’s papers.
Maximov reached into his coat and pulled out his pass book.
The Czech flipped through it, glancing up at Maximov to check his face against the picture.
“The Polack is asleep,” he said, nodding towards the other half of the building, where beige blinds had been pulled down over the windows. “Where are you going, Russian?”
“I am going to America,” he said.
The Czech raised his eyebrows. For a moment the guard just stood there, as if he could not comprehend the idea of traveling that far. Now his gaze turned towards the motorcycle. “Zundapp,” he said, pronouncing it “Soondop.” He grunted with approval, resting his knuckles on the chrome fuel tank as if it were a lucky talisman. At last he handed Maximov his pass book and raised the boom across the road. “Go on to America,” he said, “you and your beautiful Soondop!”
It took Maximov another week to reach Le Havre. There he sold the beautiful Zundapp and bought a ticket to New York. When the ship left port, he stood at the railing, watching the coast of France until it seemed to sink beneath the waves.
PEKKALA STOOD IN STALIN’S OFFICE AT THE KREMLIN, HANDS BEHIND his back, waiting for the man to appear.
Finally, after half an hour, the trapdoor clicked and Stalin ducked into the room. “Well, Pekkala,” he said as he settled himself into his red leather chair, “I have taken your advice and placed the engineer named Zalka in charge of completing the T-34. He assures me that the final adjustments to the prototype design will be ready in a matter of weeks. Zalka has told me that he will be adding several safety features to the original design. Apparently, the test drivers had already started calling it—”
“I know,” said Pekkala.
“I happen to agree with Nagorski,” continued Stalin, as if Pekkala had not interrupted. “The machine should come first, but we can’t have them calling the T-34 a coffin before it’s even started rolling off the production line, can we?”
“No, Comrade Stalin.”
“All mention of Colonel Nagorski in connection to the Konstantin Project has been erased. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, he had nothing to do with it. I have no wish for our enemies to gloat over the death of one of our most prominent inventors.”