by Glenn Meade
“Forget it, Walter.”
Boyle went down the hospital steps and climbed into a gray Packard parked on the curb, the engine kicking over. Lydia sat in the rear, Andrev in the passenger’s seat. “How is she?” Lydia asked.
Boyle was grim, his eyes red. “Not the best, I’m afraid. But it changes nothing. We still go ahead.” He shifted into gear and pulled out from the curb.
NEAR SOUTHEND-ON-SEA
4 P.M.
The wartime training aerodrome sixty miles from London had been abandoned since the early spring.
That afternoon Boyle drove them in the Packard down the muddy track. The aerodrome was once part of a derelict farmyard and Boyle halted the Packard outside a huge cowshed that was converted into an aircraft hangar. The green-painted corrugated doors were firmly shut, and several cars and a canvas open-top truck were parked outside.
A burly, energetic man in his late twenties with a toothbrush mustache stood outside the hangar, wearing glasses and a mustard-colored work coat. He clutched a pocket watch in one hand, a cup of steaming tea in the other, impatience braiding his voice as he said in Russian, “You’re six hours late, Boyle. What the dickens kept you?”
Boyle climbed out. “Personal business in London. How are you, Igor? Well, I hope?”
The man put his pocket watch away. “I’d be even better if you kept to our schedule.” He turned charmingly to Andrev and Lydia, and took her hand and kissed it as if she were an old friend. “My dear, you’ll have to teach this man the good manners of keeping appointments on time. It’s a virtue he’s sometimes sadly lacking. So these are our guests?”
Boyle said, “Igor Sikorsky, meet Uri and Lydia.”
Sikorsky shook Andrev’s hand. “The pleasure is all mine.”
Andrev said, astonished, “The Igor Sikorsky? The famous aircraft designer?”
“Guilty, I’m afraid.”
“There’s a rumor that the Reds shot you,” Andrev said.
“I escaped by the skin of my teeth. If only some of my friends were so lucky. It seems anyone who questions Lenin is destined for the firing squads these days.” He tossed the contents of his mug onto the grass. “I’ve got some fresh tea brewing inside. Then I’ll show you the beast that’s going to fly you into the jaws of hell.”
Even at the tender age of twelve, when he designed a toy helicopter powered by a rubber band, Igor Sikorsky was already considered a genius.
Born in Kiev in 1889, Igor grew up with his father, a psychology professor, and his mother, a respected physician, and from childhood his parents instilled in their son a love of art, especially for the works of Michelangelo and Jules Verne. Not surprisingly the boy’s passion for flight was ignited and he dedicated himself to a career in aviation. Barely ten years after the Wright Brothers flew at Kitty Hawk, by the age of twenty-three, Sikorsky had already designed the world’s first long-range transport plane.
The four-engine Ilya Muromets, named after a Russian folk hero, was a sturdy transport aircraft capable of carrying up to sixteen passengers at a cruising speed of almost seventy miles an hour. When the war came, Sikorsky’s beloved transport plane was converted into a bomber, adding nine machine guns and a heavy payload of bombs.
It seemed ironic that the Russians, while having a completely inferior air force during the war, possessed one of the most revolutionary, modern aircraft of its time.
As Sikorsky led Boyle and the others in through the hangar doors that afternoon, they witnessed an astonishing sight: parked in the middle of the floor was an enormous, pale green biplane with a long, cigar-shaped cabin and four massive engines. It bristled with at least eight strategically positioned Lewis machine guns.
Sikorsky said, “Say hello to the Ilya Muromets. Or the S-23V if you prefer. It’s sixty feet long and has a wingspan of just over a hundred feet. You’re looking at the future of air travel, my friends.”
It was unlike any aircraft they had ever seen and as they marveled at the plane, Boyle said, “Good grief, Igor, so this is it? I’ve seen photographs in the press but they don’t do it justice.”
Inside the hangar, a half-dozen mechanics were working away in greasy overalls. Sikorsky led the way toward a small stepladder, beckoning Boyle and the others as he entered a spacious cabin.
“This model is a bastardized version, with many of the original passenger amenities, though with machine guns added. It was actually destined for the tsar, but he was a naval man and never enjoyed flying. It’s got four Sunbeam Crusader V-8 engines, a specially built bedroom, internal heating, electrical lighting, a lounge, and the first airborne toilet. All the modern comforts, you might say.”
“You’re joking,” Lydia said.
“I never joke about my inventions,” Sikorsky said soberly. “I like to think of the Ilya as a hotel room on wings. Believe me, within the next twenty years everyone will be flying in a machine like this. We would have begun passenger flights in 1914 had the war not started. Watch your head.”
They moved into a roomy cabin. The cockpit had space for several passengers to stand and observe the pilot at work, but the most impressive area was the lounge, complete with a wicker table and chairs. Toward the aircraft rear was a small bedroom cabin with two low, narrow cots, an electric light overhead. A door led to a washroom and toilet.
“Incredible,” Boyle uttered. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s straight out of a Jules Verne novel. And this thing actually flies?”
Sikorsky looked mildly offended and thrust his hands in his coat pockets. “Actually, it broke the world record for the longest recorded flight of over seventeen hundred miles in less than twenty-six hours, from St. Petersburg to Kiev and back, with two stops for refueling. That was in June 1914. We’ve made considerable improvements since then, increasing the range and engine performance.”
“What about crew?”
“We usually carry a mechanic on board, along with the pilot and eight machine gunners—a total crew of ten. For your flight, we only need two pilots and a mechanic, so it’ll save weight.”
Boyle looked around the cabin, shaking his head. “It’s unbelievable, Igor.”
Sikorsky slapped a hand on the interior fuselage. “I built eighty of these beauties. We flew four out of Russia before the Reds could get their hands on them.”
As they stood there, stunned, studying the cabin, Sikorsky said to Boyle, “I suppose you don’t care to tell me exactly what it is you’re all up to? Or do I simply follow instructions and provide the transport?”
“I’m afraid it’ll have to remain our secret, Igor.”
“Say no more.” Sikorsky winked and gestured toward the stepladder. “Let’s go to my office. We can discuss the flight plan for your journey and I’ll give you the bad news—the risks you’re going to face in flight.”
52
They entered an office with glass windows at the back of the hangar. Sikorsky poured freshly brewed tea into mugs and handed them to his visitors, adding heaped spoonfuls of sugar into his own tea. “Help yourselves. Does anyone have any questions before I start?”
“Do you really think we can reach our destination, Igor?”
Before he addressed Boyle, Sikorsky crossed to a map of Europe and most of Russia on the wall, and slapped a big bony hand on it. “I don’t see why not. With refueling the Ilya’s capable of flying the distance, so that shouldn’t be a problem.” Sikorsky fingered his mustache. “The wild card will be the weather. It’s forecast to be good with strong winds from west to east, but you never know, things can change. I’d be lying if I said it won’t get rough up there at times, but if we’re careful you ought to be able to avoid any really bad patches.”
“Anything else we should know about?” Boyle asked, and sipped from his mug.
“The bad news is the Imperial German air service is still carrying out reconnaissance flights from their lines outside St. Petersburg. But if it’s any comfort they usually avoid the Ilya. They call it ‘the porcupine’ because it’s br
istling with eight machine guns, which makes it a serious foe.”
“Who’s our pilot?” Lydia asked.
“Your captain is one of the best fliers I know, at least when he’s sober.” Sikorsky smiled, crossed to the office door, and yelled across the hangar, “Boris! Can you haul your backside in here right away?”
A small, dapper, bow-legged man with a wispy blond beard and bloodshot eyes crossed the hangar floor and entered the office. He was handsome in an odd sort of way, and wore a black mariner’s cap set at a jaunty angle, a dark uniform suit, and grubby black boots, the laces undone.
Sikorsky made the introductions. “Meet the man who’s going to fly you to Russia within twenty-four hours. This is Boris Pozner.”
Pozner grinned, displaying a couple of gold teeth. “Charmed to meet you, ladies and gentlemen.” He kissed Lydia’s hand, then offered a handshake to Boyle and Andrev.
Sikorsky said, “Boris is ex-Imperial navy, like many of our Russian fliers.”
Pozner shrugged. “Sea or air, it doesn’t make much difference, does it? You’ll get tossed about like a feather in a storm either way.”
“Would you care to tell our passengers about their flight?”
Pozner moved to the wall map and tapped a fingertip at the southeast coast of England, then swung it in an arc until he touched St. Petersburg. “The plan is to fly across the North Sea for about six hours and land in northern Germany, near Kiel, and refuel.”
“Surely we can’t land on enemy territory?”
“I have news for you. All the aerodromes we’ll be using to refuel are in German-held territory. But we’ll be using abandoned civilian and military sites that I’m familiar with. I’m hoping we can land and depart before the Germans are any the wiser.”
Pozner tapped the map. “Our next fuel stop will be across the Baltic at an airfield near the Gulf of Riga. With the winds on our side it should take about another eight hours, which is right at the limits of our range.”
“It’s also where we’ll say our good-byes,” Boyle added. “That’s where I’ll be getting off.”
Pozner went on: “We’ll quickly refuel and take off again. Another six hours or more should see us arrive outside St. Petersburg.”
“Where do we get all the fuel?” Lydia asked Pozner.
Sikorsky said, “You’ll be carrying extra fuel cans on board, enough for the complete outward journey, so if there are any smokers among you, I’d suggest you seriously think of giving up the habit right now. One spark and you risk causing a fireball.”
Pozner addressed Uri and Lydia and pointed again at St. Petersburg. “We’ve arranged a supply of fuel at your final destination, to cover the return leg. The airfield we’ll put down in is over thirty miles from the city. There’s a local train that’ll take you to St. Petersburg in an hour.”
Lydia looked back at the wood and metal Ilya through the office windows, then wrapped her arms around herself as if to keep out the hangar chill. “Are you certain that thing is safe?” she asked Pozner.
“Nothing in life is entirely safe, madame. But I assure you the Ilya’s one of the safest aircraft around, tough as a jockey’s hide.”
Pozner looked back at the hangar, pride in his voice. “Only one has ever been lost in battle so far—shot down by four German Albatroses, three of which our crew managed to destroy with machine-gun fire. The aircraft has an excellent record.”
“But won’t it be dangerous flying and landing at night?”
“You forget, it’s still white nights in the Baltic this time of year. The short nights hardly divide the evenings from the mornings, making it easier to land. We should be able to locate the airfields without too much bother, using our map-reading skills and compasses.”
Andrev said, “You seriously believe we can reach Russia in less than twenty-four hours?”
“If the winds are with us I’m confident we can make it in less.”
“That’s astonishing,” Lydia said.
“It’s progress.” Pozner pushed his greasy mariner’s cap off his forehead, and rested his hands on his hips. “Right, I’ll take a last look at our flight route, so if everyone gets their belongings on board we can get under way.”
Lydia said, “You mean now?”
“Yes, madame, now. The weather’s due to turn stormy this afternoon. If we want to avoid the worst of it we need to get off the ground.”
53
EKATERINBURG
It was raining heavily that evening. Thunder rumbled in the darkened sky as the Fiat truck squealed to a halt outside the Imperial Hotel on Neva Street.
Yakov sat in the passenger seat beside the driver, rain lashing the windshield. Next to him, Kazan barked at two of his plainclothes Cheka huddled under the truck’s drenched canvas. “Get going. You know what to do.”
The men jumped down and ran through the rain into the hotel.
Kazan said in frustration, “Our spy’s somewhere in the city, I’ll bet my life on it, Commissar. His best bet for now is to remain hidden in Ekaterinburg.”
Yakov stared out beyond the rain. The Imperial was the last hotel and lodging house on the list, and all had been checked twice in case their quarry had found housing there recently. The city was a warren of backstreets and tenements, but Yakov hadn’t the manpower to search everywhere.
The two Cheka returned and climbed into the back of the truck, shaking rain from their coats, and one of them said, “No new guests have arrived, comrade. No one matching the man’s description has tried to check in.”
Kazan slammed a fist into his palm. “Where’s he got to? He can’t be sleeping rough, not while he’s wounded and with a curfew. If he’s not staying in a hotel or lodgings, then someone has to be helping him.”
Yakov lit a cigarette and stared out past the rain, studying the city’s distinctive skyline, dotted with church spires and cathedral domes. “Not short of religious orders this city, is it?”
“It’s long been an Orthodox settlement. Monasteries and churches are everywhere.”
“They’re also known to offer sanctuary. Get me a complete list of church establishments.”
NEAR SOUTHEND-ON-SEA
ENGLAND
“I think we’ve covered everything,” Boyle said.
They were in the windowed office at the back of the hangar. Lydia carried a small suitcase and Andrev a well-worn Russian-army-issue kit bag.
Boyle added, “But no harm in checking all our papers. Let’s have a look.”
They all did as he suggested, then Boyle handed Andrev and Lydia each a Nagant revolver and a box of cartridges. “I’m hoping you won’t need these. Remember, lose the weapons if ever you think they’ll cause you trouble.”
Boyle gave them each a small purse filled with rubles and kopeks, a payok—a booklet filled with ration stamps—and a single canvas bag of provisions containing cheese, butter, bread, jam, tinned sardines, and biscuits.
“The food’s the kind that can be bought in Russia, and there’s enough to last you both a week. The money will be enough to get you to your destination. You don’t want to get caught with too much cash; it could only attract unwanted attention.
“I’ve given you ration booklets—the Reds have issued them because of severe shortages. I’ll be carrying the same provisions and ration booklets. Once we land near Riga, I’ll leave you, and make my way by train to Ekaterinburg. Is there anything you’d like me to go over again?”
Andrev glanced at Lydia, then shook his head.
“That’s it, then. We’re ready to go.” Boyle tucked a hand inside his pocket and offered Lydia the small black Mauser with walnut grips, along with a spare magazine. “Yours, I believe. Maybe you’d like to hold on to it as extra insurance?”
Lydia accepted the pistol. “If I don’t make it back, Boyle, promise me for Finn’s sake your word will be kept?”
“You have my solemn pledge.”
For a few moments no one spoke, and then they heard a rumbling sound as a pair of mec
hanics shoved open the hangar doors. The sky outside was turning charcoal as ominous clouds marched across the horizon.
Sikorsky strode into the office, all business, and holding a mug of tea. “Pozner’s anxious to get under way, so whenever you’re ready.” He raised his mug in a toast. “Any enemy of the Reds is an ally of mine. So whatever it is you’re up to, I hope you give them torment, my friends.”
They moved outside the hangar as the Ilya Muromets was wheeled out onto a well-rutted meadow used as a landing strip.
One of the mechanics climbed on board along with Pozner’s co-pilot, a boyish-faced young man barely out of his teens who helped push the aircraft out onto the field.
Pozner clutched a handful of weather and route charts and looked up worriedly at the gathering clouds. “We’ll need to move things along, or the storm’s going to hit. Climb aboard, please.”
A mechanic placed a small stepladder at the aircraft door. They stepped on board to a strong smell of fuel, over a dozen metal drums stacked both sides of the long aircraft cabin.
Pozner said, “You can sit or stand up front and watch our takeoff—suit yourselves.”
Boyle picked a passenger seat. Andrev and Lydia decided to stand in the front cabin behind Pozner and his young copilot, both perched on high chairs, Pozner operating the surface controls, the copilot the throttles.
Boyle waved a salute at Sikorsky, then Pozner closed the door and the aircraft was pushed farther out onto the field where the mechanics turned the props. One by one the four engines sputtered and ignited.
Pozner worked the controls. “Here we go; hold on tight.”
Uri and Lydia held on to a couple of leather support straps overhead as Pozner increased the throttles. A powerful, noisy surge vibrated through the aircraft as the engines revved. Slowly the plane began to move, rattling and shaking as it bumped down the rutted airfield, building up power, faster and faster.
Then, just when the aircraft seemed about to disintegrate with the harsh vibration, it lifted gracefully into the air.