Later that day he killed a musk deer and broiled a steak over the fire. He ate hugely, eating as his forebears had eaten when meat could not be saved and another kill might be days away.
When he had eaten he put out his fire, obliterated as much as possible of the sign it left, and hiked on another two miles before finding a place to sleep.
Somewhere far ahead was the Kolyma River and beyond it mountains of the same name. When he reached those mountains he would follow them toward the northeast.
He was tempted to go into Magadan, just for a change of diet, if no more. He had his suit and he had the white shirt Natalya had made for him. At this time of the year, he might even get away with wearing moccasins. He shook his head. Not with a suit. A new suit, at that. It would draw attention he did not want. Nonetheless, it was a temptation.
There was no trail or path where he now walked, and he kept his eyes open to pick up an animal trail. It was easy to get oneself into a cul-de-sac, not knowing the mountains. If you followed a trail, it was always a way somebody or something had gone before.
It was bitterly cold and getting more so. Before nightfall he would have to get down off the top of the mountain where he now walked. Warm air rises, and if he could find a hiding place on a good slope he would settle in, even if it was early.
He heard the helicopter only a moment before it appeared, and there was nowhere to hide. Hoping they had not seen him he dropped to the ground among some flat rocks, hoping they would take him for snow or even a dead animal. He lay perfectly still, but inside his coat his hand gripped the AK-47.
The copter swung by, not directly overhead, and started on; then it around and came back, flying lower.
They had seen something. They were coming back for him. All right, Joe Mack, he whispered to himself. Get them the first time.
He lay still, and they swung by directly over him, not fifty feet off the ground.
He rolled over as they swung by and let go with a burst just as they began their turn. They were making a tight turn not more than fifty yards away, and they believed he had only a bow and arrows. What they got was totally unexpected.
The copter dipped sharply and then smashed into the ground, tipping slightly and then righting itself. The rotor made a few despairing turns and then slowed to a stop.
Lying behind the rocks—a poor cover at best, for they were very low—Joe Mack watched, ready to fire again.
Nothing happened. Nobody stirred.
He waited a slow count of twenty and still nothing moved. His gun covering the side of the helicopter, he got to his feet. Working his way toward the tail, he kept the gun in position and slowly drew abreast. He heard a low gasping moan, as if someone had tried to move and had been stopped by sheer agony. With his left hand he opened the door.
The pilot lay slumped forward, obviously dead. The man nearest him made a feeble effort to reach for a weapon. “No!” Joe Mack spoke sharply, the muzzle of his gun against the Russian’s side.
He was a young man with a boyish face, but a tough, competent-looking man. In Russian he asked him, “How are you hurt?”
“My legs are broken, I think.”
Quickly, efficiently, he searched the man, taking a pistol from him. Then, with infinite care, he lifted him out of the seat to the ground. From the helicopter he recovered the man’s heavy coat and several blankets. There was a folded emergency tent, and he took that out and laid it on the ground.
“Not much I can do for you,” he said. “I’m no surgeon. Did you get off a call for help?”
“No.”
Joe Mack believed him. There had been no time, no chance. “How soon will they start looking for you?”
“When we do not answer.”
“All right. I’m going to fix you up as warm as I can, and then I’ll leave. Sorry about this, but you shouldn’t have been hunting me.”
“We were not. That is, until we saw something lying there. We were going to pick up a prisoner. A dissident.”
Joe Mack gathered all the coats and blankets from the copter to make the wounded man as warm as possible. As he talked, he built a windbreak of the flat rocks.
“A dissident? I didn’t know you had such things.” He spoke with a touch of sarcasm in his tone.
“We have our share. This is a bad one. He tried to free another prisoner. Did free him, in fact, but was captured himself.”
“Tough.”
“Yes, he is a tough one, as you say. Very strong man and not afraid. Too bad he has become a dissident. We need such men in Russia.”
“So does every country.” A thought came to him suddenly, a wild random thought. Yet why not? “What was his name?”
“Yakov. We do not have a patronymic. He was known to the KGB.”
“You are not KGB?”
“I am a soldier,” the man said. Then, “How will they find me?”
“I shall build a fire and leave some fuel for you. There is much lying about. And I found a flashlight in the plane.” He had found two of them, as a matter of fact. One he intended to keep. He had also found emergency rations, such as every such ship carried in this country, and matches.
He built a small fire and made tea, hot, black, and strong. “Best thing for shock, they tell me.”
He drank some tea himself and moved a packet of the emergency rations close to the wounded man.
“I won’t be able to stay, you know. In fact, I’d best be off and away.”
“I am obliged. You could have killed me.”
“You are a soldier. I am a soldier. In combat I might have killed you or been killed, but you are wounded. It is a different thing.”
“It is said you are a Red Indian?”
Joe Mack smiled. “I am.”
Obviously in pain, the man bit his lip and held himself hard against it. Then he said, “Do not Indians take scalps?”
Joe Mack shrugged. “That was long ago, in another world almost. Yes, it was a way of keeping score. I have never taken one, although in a couple of cases I might be tempted.”
He gathered his things, rummaged in the plane for more ammunition, found it, and took what other rations were available. Then he brought more wood for the fire. There was not a shortage of that, except that it needed gathering.
“It will keep a small fire going, and from up there they will see it easily. I must be off now.” Yet he lingered. “Yakov, you say? Where were you to pick him up?”
“Near Khonuu. It is not far,” he caught himself and was silent for a moment, “if you are flying.”
He paused again. “The KGB are holding him at the airfield.” He glanced up. “I have feeling for him. They will be rough, I think.”
“When were they not? I do not know your country. I did not think there were rebels here.”
The flyer shrugged. “There are none, or at least few who speak out. There is corruption, of course, and the black market. Many are discontented but have faith that everything will be put right.”
Joe Mack went into the darkness and gathered fuel. There were few trees here and scattered, but there was much debris fallen from them and dead trees, blown down or struck by lightning. He dragged some heavy stuff closer.
“You will not escape, you know,” the flyer said. “Alekhin knows where you are. He will find you.”
“I shall be expecting him.”
“You are not afraid?”
“He is a man. I am a man. We will see.”
He added a few sticks to the fire. “Good luck, Russian. Next time, tell your pilot to stay out of matters that do not concern him.”
He walked away into the darkness.
Of course, he had delayed too long. When there was no word from the helicopter, a search would begin. Once the helicopter was found, they would know where he was, approximately.
Khonuu? It was a town on the Indigirka, and Yakov was a prisoner there.
Yakov, who had helped him, gone out of his way to guide him. Yakov, who was a free spirit and partly of Tungus bl
ood. Yakov, who refused to be harnessed. Yakov was a prisoner. Yet what could he, Joe Mack, do? He did not know the town or the airfield. The chances were great, however, that Yakov would be held at the airfield awaiting transportation to wherever the KGB wanted him. After interrogation, Yakov would be killed. Of that there could be no question.
Khonuu was not that far out of his way, yet he had avoided populated districts, knowing he would be recognized for who he was almost at once.
When it was light enough to see, he began to run. He ran easily, smoothly, careful of each step. Black, bare trees stretched bare black arms against the lightening sky. He ran into the dawn, an Indian, feeling himself an Indian, and when he found a dim game trail he went along it, finding it led him down the mountain.
The long hard months had left him lean and strong. As a cold sun arose from the far-distant gray clouds, he ran toward it, and then the trail took him north. He was going the way he must. Was it fate? He did not believe in fate, but something seemed to be guiding him as he ran.
He was a warrior, and another warrior, brother to him in spirit, was in trouble. He knew the risk, knew the slight chance he had of even finding where Yakov was held, but he took the chance freely.
Once, long ago, he had seen a young Chinese on the gallows waiting for the noose. He had said, “Some mans spend nice new money. I spend nice new life.”
“If I must, I will,” he told himself. “I am alone, and nobody awaits me.”
Nobody? What of her? What of Natalya? Did she await him somewhere? Or was he forgotten, something that had drifted across her life like a passing cloud?
What had she promised? Nothing. What had he offered? To come for her, when both knew it was a vain, desperate promise to which no sane person would hold him. Yet in that respect he might not be sane, for he truly expected to return, to take her from the shore at Plastun Bay.
Foolish? Of course, but so many things worth doing may seem foolish to others, may seem impossible.
He ran down the mountain in the morning’s gray light and found his way into the shadowed firs, the black guardian firs that clustered along his way. He crossed frozen streams and ran through patches of thin snow where his moccasins barely left a track behind.
When the sun was warm he found a place among the willows and slept, and when the sun was higher still he awakened. For a long time he stood, listening to the wind, hearing what was moving, watching the flight of birds, and they seemed unafraid and undisturbed. He began to run once more, for he had far to go and did not know how much time he had.
He saw no one and heard nothing but, once, far off, the ring of an ax chopping wood.
The morning opened wide before him, and the forest thinned again. In the distance he saw the smoke of cooking fires in the homes of those he did not know, and far off a city against the sky and a river between.
He slowed to a walk. A running man would be seen and would invite questions to which he had no answers. Now he must find the airfield. He was guessing, judging Yakov would be held waiting for the transportation to take him away. Now to scout the field and see where such a man might be held. And after that?
He was a warrior, and for a warrior any day was a good day to die.
Only he expected to live. He needed to live to free Yakov, to count coup on his enemies, and to meet a golden lady on a distant shore.
He was no longer an officer and a gentleman, no longer a flyer for the American Air Force; he was, for now, an Indian. And he had enemies.
There were scattered houses. One man, carrying an armful of wood, glanced at him, then went inside.
He walked steadily on. He saw a small plane take off and knew where the airfield was. He changed direction, walked among some houses, and crossed a bridge. His heart was pounding, his mouth dry. His AK-47 was hidden under his coat, his bow appeared to be a staff, no more than that.
It was very early and very cold. Nobody went willingly into the cold on such a day.
Two men walked before him, two thick men in thick coats and dark fur hats. They walked steadily and did not look back, but the walk of one was familiar. He unfastened the string that tied his coat and let his hand touch the butt of the AK-47. He was ready, but he took longer strides to move faster without seeming to hurry.
The man turned around, and it was Botev.
Chapter 40
*
FOR A MOMENT Botev stood still. Then he reached out and touched his companion. The other man turned, and it was Borowsky.
Were they to be considered friends or enemies? They were, after all, Russians. Yet they had differences with their government. He walked closer.
“You are still free,” Botev said. “It is an achievement.”
“Yakov is a prisoner.”
“That is why we are here.”
“He is at the airfield?”
Botev’s eyes swept the area around to see if they were attracting attention. Nobody was in sight.
“He is there. There are four KGB men with him. They are in a small waiting room near the control center, waiting for the plane to come and take them away. It will be a helicopter, I believe.”
“You have a plan?”
Botev shrugged. “How can we plan? We know so little. He is there and we wish to free him. If we free him, we can escape into the taiga. We have friends there, scattered friends. We also have friends in Magadan.”
“I did not know there were so many of you.”
Borowsky shrugged. “We are few, comrade, very few. We are not seeking to overthrow the government, even if that were possible. We only want some freedom for ourselves and to protect our own. Yakov is one of the best. We need him. He has helped all of us from time to time.”
“Our choice is limited,” Botev said. “The taiga or a prison camp, and for Borowsky and me, they would put us to work that would soon kill us. If they did not torture us to death. We can expect nothing less. Neither can Yakov.”
“We had better move on,” Borowsky said. “To stand talking in the cold is unreasonable. We will attract attention.”
“Four men, you say? There will be others about?”
Borowsky shrugged. “Perhaps. Most of them will not like the KGB, but we cannot tell what they might do.”
They walked on in silence along the snow-covered road. They passed a long building like a warehouse and then some smaller buildings. They could see the field now. It had several hangars, a building that was probably an administration building with a tower, and a smaller building nearby with a Volga standing before it.
Joe Mack said, “There’s a chopper coming in now. Will that be it?”
“It will. When they start for the chopper, we had better take them.”
“No,” Joe Mack said. “Let’s take the chopper. I can fly it.”
“Well—”
“It will get us out of town. There will be planes after us, but we can ditch it and take to the woods.”
They paused beside a hangar. “When it lands,” Botev said, “they will drive out in the Volga. They will not expect trouble.”
They waited, stamping their feet against the cold, shivering and watching. “If we are seen,” Borowsky said, “they will wonder why we are standing here in the cold.”
“It is a risk we take,” Botev said. “Yakov would do it for us.”
“He got me out of Kirensk,” Borowsky said. “He risked his neck to do it.”
“And me from one of the Sol’vychegodsk camps,” Botev said.
The chopper was coming in low. It would land on the airfield not far from the hangars.
Joe Mack’s hand was on the AK-47. He heard the Volga start, and from the corner of the hangar they saw two men emerge from the building with a prisoner between them. His hands were shackled behind him.
“There will be two men in the building. Maybe they will be watching.”
“No matter.” Joe Mack saw the helicopter landing gently on the field and heard the car’s motor start. The hatch of the copter opened and a man go
t down and stood aside. It was a bigger ship than those he had seen before and would carry at least a squad. Inwardly he was praying there was no such force aboard. If there were, nobody would get out of this alive.
“Let’s go,” he said, and they started to walk, not in a group but scattered out, drifting onto the field with the casual manner of curious country folk.
The Volga swung alongside the chopper, and the driver remained at the wheel. From the Volga, three men got down, and they saw Yakov turn his head slightly, eyes downcast, and glance toward them. Suddenly he fell to his knees. “No! No!” he cried out. “I am afraid to fly! I—!”
Angrily, the KGB men tried to jerk him erect, their attention completely on their prisoner. Even the driver had turned his head to see what was happening. Borowsky stepped alongside the Volga and opened the door on the driver’s side. The driver, surprised, turned to look into a pistol. “Get out, very carefully,” Borowsky said quietly. “I do not want to kill you.”
Botev had rounded the Volga, coming up behind the two men who struggled with Yakov. Yakov was a powerful man, and he had managed, with a lunge, to knock one man off his feet. The other struggled, swearing, to pull Yakov to a standing position. Botev moved in behind him as Joe Mack went to the chopper. He spoke to the pilot.
“Will you step out, please? I am very nervous, and a burst of fire at this distance would empty your guts.”
Carefully, the copter pilot began to get out. He was a brave man, but he wished to live, and the AK-47 was very close, and the man who held it was like no one he had ever seen, with the striking gray eyes in a dark hawklike face, his hair in two braids. The pilot moved very carefully. “Be careful with that,” he said. “I have two children.”
“You are fortunate. Children need a father, so stay alive, comrade, and make no mistakes. I want your chopper.”
“You can fly it?”
“I can fly anything.” He nudged the pilot with the gun barrel to move him further. “And this seems very like one of our own.”
Botev had the two KGB men on their feet against the side of the Volga. From the buildings they were screened. Nevertheless, one of the KGB men had come outside and was looking toward them. “Have you got the key for the handcuffs?” he asked Botev. “If so, disarm them and put them in the copter.”
Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) Page 32