Podgorny nodded. “Good. They should be happy to see us and our fuel and immunizer, then. And the happier they are, perhaps the fewer questions they will ask.”
Rostov had looked down the length, counting as best as he could. “Looks like it only has about fifty cars. That should let her run lighter, faster. Let’s talk to these trainmen.”
Zorin broke from his trance and tapped Rostov’s arm. “Trouble, maybe, Lieutenant.”
They turned to see a KGB colonel approaching. Serafimov stepped up to the three Combat Engineers, saluted Podgorny. Podgorny returned the salute smartly, began to report.
“Colonel Podgorny, Fifth Guards Armored Engineers, Comrade. We have quantities of the fuel immunizer as well as protected petrol and diesel for immediate evacuation from the Moscow District, via the Bryansk salient.”
“Colonel Serafimov. KGB. Welcome, Comrade. I confess I find it odd that I received no advance notice of your coming. The immunizer is too valuable a commodity to risk missing the last train out of Moscow.”
“Regrettably, Comrade Colonel, we were delayed by raiding parties. The invaders had been attacking our area with strong infantry forces, and a General Morevno ordered us out of the area at all speed.” Morevno was the KGB officer commanding the armored column that had overrun Wrenn’s position.
The KGB colonel only pursed his lips and nodded.
“All right, Comrade,” Serafimov finally said. “Get your men up onto the flatbeds and into the boxcars. Get everything tied down. We should be leaving within the hour.” Serafimov turned and left with a perfunctory salute.
“Too easy,” Rostov said quietly. Something must be horribly wrong. Relax, he commanded himself. In one hour, the train would be leaving Moscow. An hour after that, he and his men would have to be in control. But sure enough, like Dostoevski’s Grand Inquisitor, the KGB man turned with an innocent look of afterthought on his face.
“Oh, by the way, Comrade Colonel; I don’t suppose that any of your men would be familiar with steam engines, eh?”
Podgorny looked blank, caught unawares. Rostov frowned. The men were routinely trained in all forms of power plant technology. They might be a little rusty on steam, but any one of them could make himself useful.
“Problems with the locomotive, Comrade Colonel?” Podgorny asked.
The KGB man shrugged. “Civilian trainmen. Conscripts. They claim there’s some difficulty in building up pressure.”
“I know something about boilers, sir,” Zorin said innocently. Indeed he did, Podgorny remembered; better still, Zorin was a deadly in-fighter. If the trainmen in the cab were under guard, Zorin was the man to put in there among them.
Podgorny nodded. “Take Sergeant Zorin, Colonel. He might be of use.”
“Very good, Comrade.” Serafimov was beaming. “Thank you very much.” He was feeling expansive, and told Podgorny to be sure his men got some food before the field-kitchen was dismantled. Seranmov left almost whistling. He was already bringing Party Central a huge cache of ammunition and supplies, and now almost a company’s worth of valuable Engineers and their preciously guarded immunizer. Tekniks, alive and well! Serafimov could almost taste his promotion. Of course, he thought, the officers would have to go, but that was a minor problem.
Zorin followed Serafimov up into the locomotive’s engine cab. The size of the engine was almost overwhelming. Three men in trainmen’s coveralls were grouped on one of the outside walkways that ran the entire length of the engine, handing one another tools and working at a cluster of pipes and valves. Zorin thought they looked like ants on a summer squash. Two more trainmen were in the cab itself. Standing over them was a lanky trooper in KGB uniform, his rifle casually pointed at the two civilians. Zorin’s breath caught as the man turned at Serafimov’s address. “Corporal Katchin; what is the status of the engine?”
Zimyanski’s former aide shrugged, hardly noticing Zorin. “They are claiming they don’t know the problem, Colonel.” The men on the floor laughed.
One of the trainmen, a young man with steel-rimmed spectacles, spoke idly as he adjusted a brass fitting. “We know the problem, Colonel. We’re losing pressure somewhere in this line. What we don’t know is the solution.”
Katchin abruptly planted a foot on the young man’s shoulder and pushed him firmly down on the deck grate, pointing the rifle at his throat.
Serafimov leaned forward and spoke: “I wish to be out of this trainyard in one hour,” he said in a reasonable voice. “From this point on, one of you will be shot for every fifteen minutes in which power is not up for our departure. In the future,” Serafimov said, addressing the older trainman, “be aware that I am not renowned for my sense of humor.”
Zorin almost groaned. This monster of a locomotive was almost a hundred years old. It would need every man of its crew, and would probably be shorthanded at that, and this KGB fool wanted to play the Commissar Game. Serafimov had Katchin release the man and ordered him back to work.
“Sergeant Zorin, this is Corporal Katchin; anything you need, let him know. I would appreciate your telling him if it appears these zeks are slacking in their work, as well.” Seranmov saluted and left.
Zorin took a deep breath and turned to face Katchin. It was possible that the KGB corporal did not recognize Zorin; they had rarely met face-to-face, and then only at night. Zorin saw no recognition in the man’s eyes and gave an inward shrug. Don’t look a gift of a horse too closely in the mouth, he thought, and bent to inspect the trainmen’s work.
“What’s your name, Comrade?” he asked the older man when Katchin stepped out onto the catwalk to smoke.
Watery blue eyes in a soot-grimed face took Zorin’s measure, seemed not to find him wanting, and glimmered into a smile. “Gyrich,” the man said as he turned from his work.
Ukrainian, Zorin thought. He took a closer look at the younger man who had wisecracked to Serafimov. Behind his glasses, the fellow was fair-skinned; high cheekbones, sturdy build. An old and massive burn scar could be seen through the collar of his shirt, spreading to cover most of his chest and shoulders. Zorin watched him carefully before saying, “And you?”
“Eh?” the young man turned, distracted. He was sweating heavily, and Zorin guessed it wasn’t just from the heat of the pipes over which he toiled.
“Your name?”
“Pilkanis.” The answer seemed like a weary admission of guilt.
Zorin was stunned. A Lithuanian! These men weren’t just conscripts. Small wonder the KGB regarded them as expendable. They must all be captured partisans, counterrevolutionaries from the Nationalist Insurgents that had sprung up in the last years of the war. Despite government claims to the contrary, Zorin had never heard of proven atrocities committed by these bandits against legitimate army troops. KGB, however, they killed outright.
Sergeant Zorin went to the door and looked for Katchin. The tall, thin figure could be seen leaning against the outside of the boiler. Zorin turned back to the trainmen.
“Listen: Forget what that KGB turd said; no one’s getting shot. We need you, all of you, and alive. We’re Combat Engineers, not KGB, and we’re taking this train. We’re getting out of Moscow and heading West. You and the other trainmen with you have a choice: Work with us and maybe live. Work for the KGB and surely die. What’s it to be, eh?”
The two trainmen stared at Zorin for a moment, then looked at each other. Before they could answer, they heard Katchin’s footsteps on the walkway outside, returning. Zorin made a gesture for them to keep silent, and the three of them bent back to the valves they had been working on.
Wrenn secured one of the Engineers’ light trucks to the flatbed, then passed Podgorny’s signals on to various troops. Blaustein, promoted to a pro tempore captain, had gathered the other NCOs for their final briefing. The plan for seizure of the train had been hastily assembled and required rapid execution. Now was the time for Wrenn to do his part.
He made his way to the passenger cars forward, moving with a calmness he hardly fe
lt among the dozens of KGB troops he passed along the way. While the bulk of the KGB troops was still in the barracks, Wrenn was pleased to see that most of their equipment and virtually all of their food was already aboard the train. No one paid Wrenn much attention, and he reached a door that opened into what appeared to be a conference room. The room was empty, but there were maps spread out on a large table, a desk with a plush leather chair was against one of the outside walls, and a samovar sat on a table in the corner, hissing quietly. Wrenn smiled, despite the danger of his own situation; no Russian train went anywhere without its supply of tea.
The car was evidently a holdover from the days when Soviet tourist-bureau officials insisted on trappings to impress Western visitors. Spacious and well appointed, with fittings considered lavish by any standards in the world, it was now obviously reserved for the commander. Wrenn began rifling the desk and got to the third drawer before hearing voices outside.
He looked about quickly; only the lavatory was close enough to hide in. He slipped in and locked the door.
Rostov and Podgorny inspected their troops on the flatbeds and spread throughout the cars. The odds, so far, look good, thought Rostov.
“There are lots of KGB, Colonel,” Rostov said. “But the majority have not yet boarded. I estimate we outnumber the troops aboard the train by about three to one.”
“The odds will never be better. Get up to the engine and see if Zorin has made contact with the trainmen yet, and how soon we can get moving. Which way did you see that KGB colonel go?”
“He left the engine cab and went to the first car behind the tender. Looks like a passenger car; most likely the commander’s coach.”
Podgorny nodded. “Let us hope our American friend came to the same conclusion and is hidden safely.” Podgorny’s brows knitted. “This is a sloppy plan, Rostov.”
Rostov shrugged and grinned. “Personally, sir, I think it has a certain crude appeal.”
Podgorny grunted, left Blaustein with a few last orders, and walked toward the engine with Rostov. They caught up with Serafimov just as the KGB man was climbing the ladder up into the command coach.
“Comrade Colonel.” Podgorny saluted. “I have finished seeing to my men. With your permission I should like to speak with you about our itinerary and ETA at the TransUral Command District.”
Serafimov smiled oddly. “Of course, Comrade Colonel. Join me in the command car.”
Podgorny turned to Rostov. “See how the sergeant is doing with Colonel Serafimov’s trainmen, Lieutenant.”
Rostov saluted and left.
Rostov pulled himself up the ladder into the cab and stepped onto the fireman’s station. Two trainmen were crouched on the floor with Zorin, banging away at a bank of pipes and dials. Across the way stood a tall, thin guard in KGB uniform, who looked up at Rostov and gaped. The cigarette fell from his lips into a patch of water on the floor, hissing.
“Katchin,” Rostov whispered.
Zorin looked up. “Oh, Christus, no.”
Katchin brought his rifle up and leveled it at Rostov’s chest. For a moment he said nothing, then gestured for Rostov to enter the cab. The lieutenant walked inside slowly, holding his rifle out limply to one side. Katchin seemed to have lost none of his nervousness, Rostov thought.
“What are you doing here?”
“Take it easy, Corporal.” Rostov spoke softly, carefully putting down his rifle. “We have orders to leave on this train, that’s all. Nobody needs to know about our dealings with you and Zimyanski.” Rostov nodded at Katchin’s KGB uniform. “Looks like Zimyanski talked you two into soft new careers, eh?”
Katchin’s face went cold and hard as he smiled. “Zimyanski talked himself into a noose. As for me, Colonel Serafimov has always found me useful.” He jerked the barrel of the rifle upward. “This will make the second time in a week that I’ll be contributing to the colonel’s good fortune. Outside. You too, Sergeant.”
Too late, Rostov realized his error. “Of course. Zimyanski could never signal me that he’d been infiltrated by the KGB. Not if you’d been there from the beginning. And you were always the one he brought to our meetings. His protector. I wonder if poor Zimyanski ever knew.”
Katchin almost laughed. “I assure you, he was quite surprised. He expected trouble from me when he told me he’d be leaving me behind.” Then Katchin did laugh, and the sound gave Rostov very little hope for his future. “I gave him no trouble at all. But Colonel Serafimov was quite unhappy with the little weasel. I doubt he’ll be any more pleased with you.”
Rostov shrugged. “Perhaps then we can impress him with the American Intelligence officer you gave us. The colonel may wonder why you waited so long to tell him you and Zimyanski had captured one.” Rostov watched the combined fear and rage build on Katchin’s face, and knew he had guessed right. “Unless you’d planned to go with Zimyanski; but he crossed you too, didn’t he?”
The older man, Gyrich, rose slowly, reading gauges as he did so. “Oh, oh,” he said. Katchin stopped.
“Now what?”
Gyrich pointed to a gauge. Katchin sidestepped to see what was wrong. Gyrich threw a lever.
A demon of live steam shrieked through the cab, straight for Katchin’s throat. The jet of superheated vapor hit the KGB man’s face. Through fleshless lips, Katchin screamed and dropped his rifle, then fell into the arms of the big Lithuanian, Pilkanis. Gyrich closed the valve as the younger man slammed a wrench against Katchin’s temple.
Rostov snatched his own rifle back. “Get us power, now. Pull in the rest of your crew and let’s get moving. Don’t forget we’ve got almost fifty cars on this thing.”
As he and Zorin clattered down the gangway, Rostov turned back. “And no starting whistle! No warnings, just get rolling!”
Pilkanis and Gyrich nodded grimly and set to work.
It took all their willpower for Rostov and Zorin to walk, instead of running, back toward the command car. They passed under its windows and could hear faint voices: Podgorny and the KGB colonel talking. They went on to the rear of the train, by the links connecting the boxcars to the flatbeds, to find Surgeon Blaustein had all the men in position.
“Charges set?” Rostov asked. Blaustein nodded. “Good. Zorin, your men are ready?”
Zorin shrugged. “Not something we have to do every day, Aleksei, so we’ll just have to improvise.”
Rostov grinned. “That’s the spirit. Spoken like a true Engineer. I would like to say, Sergeant, that once over the border we might try our hands at being good capitalist entrepreneurs, but…”
Zorin nodded, smiled. The world they were joking about had ceased to exist, as surely as had their own. What would replace them both one could only guess at.
“Good luck, sir,” Zorin said, adding one of his rare, formal salutes.
“And you, Mikhail.” Rostov returned the salute smartly, turned, and trotted back toward the front of the train.
It seemed to be taking him longer to get there than it should, when suddenly he realized the damn thing was rolling already.
Rostov grabbed a handrail and swung up onto a boxcar ladder. The train was still moving very slowly, but the KGB troops atop the car roof were scrambling to secure their gear. They looked up with puzzled, hostile glares at Rostov, who shrugged and grinned. The universal communication of citizens of the Soviet: I don’t know what the hell’s going on either, don’t ask me. Following Rostov’s instructions, the trainmen had given no warning whistle.
Rostov trotted along the car roofs, jumping easily across the gaps. It was not something he’d enjoy trying at any respectable speed. Buildings and power lines eased slowly by, and as they passed between two signal towers, Rostov saw a line of human scarecrows hung by the neck from the power cables. He recognized Zimyanski’s nearby corpse immediately.
All badges of rank had been left on Zimyanski’s uniform, a warning that even high rank could not protect criminals from the justice of the State.
Rostov shook his head and r
an on. Zimyanski’s legs hung limp, ending in pathetically bare feet, blackened and limp, swinging in a light breeze.
Inside the command car, Podgorny and Serafimov had gone to the map table. Podgorny had idly tried the lavatory door, but found it locked. He hoped it meant what he thought it did.
Serafimov sat down at his desk and picked up a pencil, began tapping it end-over-end against a notebook of railway charts and tables. “Any problems finding space for your men on board, Comrade Colonel?” Serafimov asked quietly. He did not look up from his pencil as he spoke.
“None, Comrade.” Podgorny fervently hoped that Rostov was making his way back up here, to say nothing of Wrenn. The takeover would have to start soon, Podgorny decided; this KGB dog was starting to sniff, he could feel it. The rail maps Wrenn had found in the guardhouse and the papers with them showed the junctions outside Moscow they would have to take in order to reach the West. There was only one workable connection, and it was a bare ten miles outside the city.
“Fine,” Serafimov said. “Your men seem in good order. It is fortunate we ran into you tekniks.” The KGB colonel knew the popular term for Combat Engineers was ambiguous. He let the phrase hang in the air, wishing to impress on Podgorny that the status of his men and himself was likewise tentative. Serafimov nodded, pursing his lips.
“We have had much trouble with raiders, Colonel. Bandits, mostly. Unfamiliar with the true military and political situation. Your men and arms will be a welcome addition to our force.”
Podgorny nodded, then sensed rather than felt something; the train was moving! He suddenly leaned across Serafimov’s desk. Startled, the KGB man instinctively tilted his chair back, obscuring the motion of the train.
“Colonel…” Podgorny said, praying thanks that he had distracted the man.
“Yes, Comrade?” Serafimov had cocked an eyebrow.
Podgorny tried desperately to think of something to say. The best he could come up with, finally, was: “I have a confession to make.”
There Will Be War Volume VII Page 25