by Glenn Meade
“I don’t know about that, but take a look. It’s astonishing.” Lydia pointed beyond the cockpit window.
Seven thousand feet below Andrev saw the vast wheat fields of southwest Russia spread out before them, glorious in the morning sunshine. “No problems?” he asked Pozner.
“Apart from a slight murmur in engine number three that tells me it needs oil. But we’ll sort that out when we land.” Pozner craned his neck and studied the sky. “Luck must be on our side. The German air patrols are obviously keeping their wheels on the ground. We’ve about an hour to go. I was just showing the lady here the sights.”
“I’ll need to borrow her for a while if you don’t mind.”
When they moved back to the cabin, Andrev said, “We better go over our story one more time and make certain we’ve got all our papers and belongings.”
When they rehearsed their cover story, he emptied his bag on the cot and checked through his things. Lydia did the same.
Andrev said finally, “It seems we’re all in order. We ought to change clothes now, before we land.”
They turned their backs on each other in the cramped cabin and dressed in their peasants’ clothing, Lydia with her coarse woolen dress and cotton blouse and jacket, and Andrev pulling on his woolen trousers and riding boots.
He turned back in time to see Lydia wrap her headscarf around her neck, gypsy-style, and she let down her long hair, shook it.
Andrev finished dressing. “As soon as we land we’ll heed Boyle’s advice and walk to the nearest railway station. It’ll be safer sticking to the fields and in these clothes we shouldn’t attract attention. Any questions?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good. I suppose we may as well go up front for the landing.” Uri stuffed his cap into his trouser pocket and reached for his bag. “Are you afraid, Lydia?”
The question caught her by surprise and she looked away, beyond the cabin window. When she looked back her green eyes met his. “I don’t know that I’m afraid of anything anymore. Once you experience war you can never be the same. You see the world differently.”
“I know.”
“It’s not the safe place you thought it was when you were a child. It’s cold and indifferent, and can be full of brutality. It makes you grateful for whatever morsel of love that comes your way. Maybe that’s why I never give up on Sean.”
“What if you never see him again? What if you meet someone else?”
“I think our hearts are big enough to love more than one person in a life, don’t you?” She looked at him. “And you—are you afraid?”
He considered. “For Sergey and Nina, yes, but not for me. I just want you to know that whatever happens to us, I’ll do my best to see that you make it back alive.”
She seemed touched by his words and leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
They were standing close in the tight cabin, their bodies almost touching. He reached out and took her in his arms.
She didn’t protest and when he kissed her on the lips she responded, gently at first, then more hungrily, her arms going round his neck in a passion fiercer than she had ever known before.
As they embraced, the aircraft lurched and the engine noise changed in pitch.
“What the … ?” Andrev uttered.
The hoarse rattle of machine-gun fire sounded, seemed to go on forever, and in response the aircraft pitched and bucked violently. Andrev was thrown off his feet and landed against the bed, Lydia on top of him.
As they struggled to stand the cabin door was flung open and the ashen-faced copilot appeared. “Captain Pozner wants you up front—we’ve got big trouble.”
61
When they moved to the front of the aircraft, Pozner was struggling to keep it under control.
Black smoke streamed from one of the port engines and the copilot was lying on his belly on the floor near the aircraft’s nose, firing bursts from a Vickers machine gun. The young mechanic had one of the cabin doors open and was tossing out the heavy fuel cans as fast as he could.
A sustained volley of fire hit them and the plane shuddered violently as machine-gun rounds ripped into the wings and fuselage. Pozner pushed the stick forward and they nosed into a steep dive, the engines screaming. Andrev managed to grab hold of an overhead strap and gripped Lydia’s waist to stop her from losing her balance.
A German aircraft roared past them, the black-and-white markings of an iron cross unmistakable on the wings and tail. It banked in a near-perfect arc, the pilot’s goggled face craning to look back, his scarf streaming in the wind. He pitched his aircraft up sharply and powered ahead of them, maneuvering left and right to avoid being hit by frantic bursts from the Vickers machine gun.
Pozner shouted above the noise, “I spoke too soon. That Albatros appeared out of nowhere and hit one of our engines.”
“Can we deal with the blaze?” Andrev stared back at the mechanic tossing out fuel cans. “What’s he doing?”
Sweat drenched Pozner’s face. “We can’t risk the fuel igniting from a stray bullet, so we have to ditch it. Our other difficulty is we won’t be able to extinguish the blaze unless we get rid of the Albatros.”
“How do we do that?”
Pozner said grimly, “It won’t be easy. The Albatros beats us hands down for speed. It’s like a flying razor—the pilot can take his time cutting us to ribbons.”
Pozner scanned the skies and they all saw the Albatros arc around, as if readying to attack them from behind.
Andrev went to help the mechanic, who continued to work feverishly, hurling out fuel cans.
Pozner shouted back at them, “If we can get the Albatros off our back one of us ought to be able to climb out on the wing and smother the engine with a fire blanket. If not the blaze is going to spread to the wings and we’ll go down in flames.”
Andrev continued to toss out the fuel and shouted desperately, “Tell me what you need me to do.”
“The Albatros will probably attempt to shoot us down from the rear. If you and the lady can handle the machine guns at the back I’ll try and maneuver to keep him from getting a straight shot at us.”
“Then what?”
“If I can abruptly slow our speed he’ll have to peel away to save himself from crashing into us. That’s when he’ll expose his underbelly and you can get your best shot.”
“Can you do that?”
“I can try. You’ve got thirty seconds to get back there and get ready before I start to maneuver. Wait for my command before you shoot.”
Andrev scrambled back to the rear, taking Lydia with him. As they reached the pair of Lewis machine guns the sound of an engine snarled past them again, frighteningly close, and another burst of fire from the Albatros ripped through the fuselage, tearing canvas to shreds and punching holes in the airframe.
Andrev forced Lydia down, covering her body with his until the shooting stopped, then he cocked both Lewis guns. “Do you know how to operate one of these things?” he asked her.
“I—I think so.”
The Ilya began to lurch up and down as Pozner porpoised the aircraft. The plane rose and fell as if riding massive waves and they had to hold tight to the Lewis guns.
They glimpsed the Albatros turn in a tight circle and line up again for another rear attack. The pilot came in from below, narrowing the gap, and Lydia could make out his goggled face as he aimed his twin machine guns. “Uri, he’s almost on top of us—”
She went to fire but he put his hand on her shoulder. “No, wait for Pozner’s command.”
Andrev calmly tried to fixed the Albatros in his sights.
Right on cue the Ilya slowed as Pozner pulled back on the throttles. The Albatros kept speeding toward them, but when its pilot saw the gap narrowing dangerously he pitched up sharply to avoid a collision, his engines snarling as he began to climb.
In the cockpit, Pozner glanced back over his shoulder and judged the moment. “Fire now!” he screamed.
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sp; Andrev squeezed the Lewis gun’s trigger and a thunderous chatter of rounds stitched into the Albatros’s vulnerable underbelly, ripping it to shreds, sending pieces of wood and canvas flying. Lydia joined in, firing a sustained burst into the stricken aircraft, which almost appeared suspended in midair.
Pozner applied thrust again to prevent the Ilya from stalling and then came a ferocious exploding ball of orange light as the Albatros burst into flames. It disintegrated, falling to earth in a cascade of debris and flames.
Lydia saw the pilot hurtled out into the air, his body turning cartwheels as he plummeted to his death.
Andrev smelled burning. “We’re on fire.”
Plumes of acrid smoke began to choke their lungs and sting their eyes. Andrev put a hand over his mouth and pulled Lydia toward the front of the cabin, where the smoke appeared less dense.
Pozner’s right hand was clapped on his left shoulder, part of the bone shattered, blood pumping between his fingers, as his good hand tried to operate the controls.
Andrev saw a massive hole ripped in the fuselage, the copilot’s body riddled with bullets. He went to see if he could help but Pozner said between gritted teeth, “Forget about him, he’s dead. Help the mechanic try to put out the engine fire. It’s our only hope if we’re to land this thing.”
The young mechanic lay huddled on the floor and was staring open-mouthed at the copilot’s shredded body. He looked terrified, his eyes wide with dread. Clutched in his hands was a fire blanket. Andrev hauled him to his feet. The fear-stricken young man was unable to speak.
Pozner said, “He’s in shock. Hit him and try to bring him to his senses. If he doesn’t put that fire out soon we’re doomed.”
They heard the frightening sound of an engine splutter as another of the V-8s struggled to keep alight. The Ilya felt as if it was losing altitude fast. Andrev saw the fire spreading across the wing.
He grabbed the fire blanket from the petrified mechanic and went to climb out through the cabin door to try to contain the blaze, but the aircraft lurched violently and nosed down.
Andrev turned back and saw Pozner collapsed over the controls. He struggled to reach him and he and Lydia sat him in one of the chairs. He was barely conscious. Andrev said to Lydia, “Do you know how to stop this thing from dropping?”
“Pozner said if the stick’s kept in the center it keeps the plane level.” Lydia did so and the aircraft began to fly more evenly.
“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Andrev told her, hefting Pozner to his feet.
“I—I’m trying. We don’t seem to have enough power.”
The flames continued to rage out on the wing.
A vast expanse of golden wheat fields stretched below them and appeared to be slowing rising up to meet them. Andrev shook Pozner violently. “Wake up, man. Tell us what to do!”
Pozner became conscious again. He seemed to realize what was happening, his senses coming alert.
With Andrev’s help he grabbed the controls from Lydia and applied power, forcing the throttles forward, but the aircraft nose hardly moved and Pozner was struggling. “It’s hopeless. Get back to the cabin and brace yourselves. We’re going to crash.”
When they didn’t move fast enough, he shouted, “Are you deaf? Get back to the cabin, it’ll give you some protection.”
With supreme effort Pozner managed to pull the aircraft out of the dive, the nose responding sluggishly, but they were still losing altitude as Andrev dragged Lydia back toward the rear cabin.
They reached the door and he thrust Lydia inside. He looked back and saw the terrified young mechanic, too shocked to move, still huddled on the floor. Andrev stumbled back, grabbed him by the collar, pushed him inside the cabin, and followed him in.
At that precise moment there was a terrifying grating sound of wood and metal disintegrating. The aircraft struck the ground with an almighty crash, hurtling them violently about the cabin.
Then it slid forward, hit something hard, and flipped on its side, bursting into flames.
Andrev awoke. He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious but he was lying on his back in a wheat field. The sun felt hot on his face, the stench of acrid smoke in his nostrils, the airplane in flames, black, oily clouds rising into the turquoise sky.
His mouth felt dry and his eyes stung, his lungs choking from the smoke. He coughed, fought for breath.
He didn’t recall being flung from the aircraft, but he could make out the shape of bodies inside the mangled fuselage. Smoke and flames billowed from the wreckage.
And then he saw Lydia, lying lifeless like a rag doll, her body draped across one of the shattered wings.
“No!” Andrev’s heart sank and he staggered to his feet and lurched toward the wreckage.
PART FIVE
62
MOSCOW
Drenching summer rain swept across the Kremlin’s cobblestones that late afternoon, and as the clock in the twelfth-century watchtower chimed out five o’clock, the dark green truck bearing Leonid Yakov chugged to a halt outside the Armory courtyard.
He climbed out into the rain. His stomach tightened. The abrupt Kremlin summons he received by cable in Ekaterinburg made him wonder if he was in trouble.
A young army aide waited for him in the courtyard. “This way, Commissar.”
As a door closed behind him Yakov found himself in a magnificent, high-ceilinged room. Tall windows overlooked a Kremlin courtyard and the spiced aroma of pipe tobacco scented the air.
Vladimir Lenin—a small man with a high forehead and goatee beard—was all charm as he put down his pipe and came round from behind the desk, his handshake firm. “Commissar Yakov, a pleasure to see you again. Sit down, sit down.”
Chubby fingers gestured to a chair and Yakov sat. Lenin radiated energy. Behind him a sideboard contained a polished samovar and a basket filled with fresh fruit, fleshy peaches and plums, sweet Crimean oranges and apricots. Yakov hadn’t seen such produce since Moscow’s food shortages.
Leon Trotsky wandered in from another room, his dark eyes intimidating as he removed a silver cigarette case from his breast pocket, selected a cigarette, and lit it with a match, then blew a ring of smoke to the ceiling.
Lenin waved a telegram. “I read your cable about the Romanovs’ security with interest. I’m also particularly intrigued by this enemy spy that Kazan’s been hunting in Ekaterinburg. The one we call the Phantom.”
“Is that why I was summoned here?”
“In a roundabout way, perhaps. The file, Leon.”
Lenin snapped his fingers at Trotsky, who removed a folder from the desk. He handed it to Lenin, who tossed aside the cable and flicked the folder open.
A wrinkled smile appeared on Lenin’s face. “I’ve been acquainting myself again with your personal history. A loyal party member. You’re exactly the kind of man we need in this brave new future we’re forging in Russia.”
“I simply do my duty, Comrade Lenin.”
The smile disappeared as Lenin tossed the file on his desk and rested his knuckled hands on his hips. “But I’m afraid that future may be under dire threat.”
“I don’t understand.”
“British forces have landed in the north of our country and are intent on sabotaging our revolution. Now our intelligence tells us the Americans are about to invade in the east—they already have many of their best spies in our country. They want to strangle us by seizing our ports and disrupting our supplies. And now there’s been an interesting twist. Tell him, Leon.”
“Yesterday just before eight a.m. a Russian-made Ilya Muromets bomber crashed in a field just over our lines, almost forty miles south of St. Petersburg. Our area commander arrived at the location to investigate within an hour. The aircraft appeared to have been shot down. That’s when it started to get really interesting, Yakov.”
“In what way?”
Trotsky blew out cigarette smoke. “Of the three crew, only a young mechanic survived. He was badly burned but conscious enough
to be interrogated. We managed to get out of him that the aircraft was transporting a man and woman to somewhere outside St. Petersburg. Before landing they dressed themselves in Russian peasant clothing.”
Yakov said, “Do we know any more about them?”
Trotsky offered a razor smile. “We’ll return to that important question in a moment. As of now, there’s no sign of their bodies. They’ve disappeared.”
Trotsky strode to the window. “It would be easy for them to vanish. Half the country is on the move because of this war. But the couple strikes me as especially interesting. Do you know why?”
“I’m at a loss.”
“One of our spies in London has reliably learned that the Whites and their supporters intend to send a number of agents into Russia to attempt to rescue the Romanovs. We believe that the aircraft could be part of that attempt.”
Yakov said, puzzled, “But the aircraft’s Russian.”
“Correct. Designed and built by Igor Sikorsky, a traitorous rebel who fled the motherland, taking a number of our aircraft with him. We’ve determined from the chassis number that the crashed plane was one of the aircraft he removed.”
“And the crew?”
“All Russian, according to the mechanic. What’s intriguing is that he claims they left England twenty hours previous. Shortly before they were to land they were attacked by a German fighter and crash-landed.”
“Where was their final destination?”
Trotsky crushed his cigarette in an ashtray. “The mechanic didn’t know. But the plan’s clever, I’ll give it that—using a Russian aircraft to land agents on our soil.” He paused. “I learned a long time ago to suspect coincidence. I believe this is further evidence, along with these Allied landings, that they intend to challenge our revolution and rescue the Romanovs.”
Lenin’s fanatical gaze settled on Yakov. “I want you to hunt down these infiltrators. All enemy spies must be executed.”
He handed over the files. “As of now you’re in charge of this case. You’ll find everything we have on the crash and the Allied plan. The man in particular should prove an interesting prey.”