The Last Eagle (A Christopher Sheppard Adventure Book 1)

by Richard Turner

  Sheppard knocked on the open door and said, “Excuse me Yuri, I hope I’m not disturbing you. Mind if I join you?’ Sheppard held up the full vodka bottle.

  A smile broke across Shipov’s tough looking face. “Yes, of course, Chris, please come in. Now what kind of Russian would I be to turn down such a generous offer?”

  Sheppard sat down at the table and poured two full glasses. He offered a toast to Shipov’s health and then together they downed their vodka. It was poor grade alcohol and Sheppard felt it burn like a hot poker thrust down his throat. Nevertheless, he quickly poured two more glasses, and once more, they downed their drinks without hesitation.

  Sheppard winced. “My God, that stuff is awful.”

  “Not the best. But beggars can’t be choosers, can they, Christopher?” pronounced Shipov.

  “Yuri, could you have not brought better vodka along with you?”

  “I would have, but everything costs money. Though the British are paying me well, they are not paying that well,” said Shipov, with a grin on his face.

  “No, I guess not,” said Sheppard as he handed Shipov the bottle. “Yuri, I’m curious—how do you know English so well?”

  Shipov took the bottle, filled their glasses, and then sat back in his chair. “I was once quite well connected. My family comes from minor nobility, and we have, or should I say we had, extensive land holdings in South-Western Russia. From what I understand, the bloody Bolsheviks established a collective farm on my family’s land and forced the peasants to give up their land too,”’ said Shipov, as he downed his third vodka and then grew introspective for a moment before continuing. “Anyway, getting back to my tale, I was once a young captain in a prestigious regiment of Hussars, having just a wonderful time in St Petersburg, when unexpectedly I was selected to serve as the junior military attaché to our ambassador to the United States. Now there’s a culture shock for you. The wonderful decadence of Russia and the never-ending social circuit that I moved through compared to the thoroughly staid business-like atmosphere in Washington. The women are different there too, far too prudish for my tastes,” Shipov said, with a wink to Sheppard. “I was there for four long years, and was even attached to the U.S. Army as an observer during Pershing’s long, dusty ride into Mexico.”

  “Sounds like you had a good enough go of it”’ said Sheppard, slowing down, nursing his third drink.

  “Yes, it was interesting enough work, but I longed for home, for mother Russia and my family’s lands. So when my time was up, I literally ran back to Russia, only to find things here going from bad to worse. As I am sure the whole world is aware, we fought poorly against the Germans. It was the beginning of the end for the old ways of life,” Shipov said, a sad look on his face as he quickly poured himself another drink. “Enough about me, tell me Captain Christopher Sheppard, how did you come by such a strong grasp of Russian?”

  Sheppard downed his drink and then waited for Shipov to replenish it before he spoke. “Well, it’s simple enough, I suppose. My father is American and my mother is English. We are quite rich, and our family has land holdings all over the world, even in the Crimea…well like you, not anymore,” said Sheppard, with a resigned shrug of his shoulders. “That is where I was raised until I was six. My mother hired a local teacher, Natalia Sherapova, a true beauty, to be our family’s nanny and private teacher,” said Sheppard nostalgically. “I spoke nothing but Russian at home until I was about six or seven years old. My parents were always busy with work or engaged on the endless social circuit, so Natalia practically raised my brother and me. My older brother, Thomas, and I travelled extensively when we were old enough to walk, seeing our parents from time to time. I guess that’s where I picked up my knack for languages.”

  “Here’s to Natalia,” said Shipov, looking for an excuse to down his drink and fill his glass back up, which he quickly did.

  “When the Great War broke out I was in the New York, where I live these days, preparing to go to school to be a geologist of all things. Not wanting to miss out on all the action, I packed my bags and headed north to Canada. I lied about who I was and enlisted as a private. And as luck would have it, my regiment was among the first to head to France, where I spent a long four years in the trenches, fighting and dying for mere yards of mud and dirt.” Sheppard grew silent, and then in one quick motion downed his awful tasting vodka.

  “I too fought in the last war,” said Shipov. “I commanded a brigade of cavalry against the Germans. It was sheer folly attacking dug-in men armed with machine guns with my men and I on horseback, but attack we did, repeatedly until we had no more men willing to die.”

  “Well, Yuri, let’s hope that it truly was the war to end all wars,” replied Sheppard, wishfully as he poured them yet another round of drinks.

  “A nice saying, said by poets and politicians, but looking around, we are right back in the middle of another one, now aren’t we?”

  “Touché,” said Sheppard, holding up his vodka-filled glass.

  “We’ll Chris, you're not a true Russian, but you’re still a good man,” said Shipov, saluting Sheppard with his glass. Pouring the last drops of the vodka into their glasses, Shipov stood and started rummaging through his room for more. Finding a half-full bottle, Shipov filled their glasses to the top, and then raised his glass and said, ‘“Aude aliquid dignum.”

  “What’s that?” asked Sheppard.

  “Latin.”

  “I know its Latin…what does it mean, Yuri?”

  “Dare something worthy.”

  “Yes, let’s dare something worthy,” replied Sheppard. Toasting Shipov, he then downing his glass, knowing that he would well and truly regret the amount he’d drunk when he had to get up in a few hours’ time.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE BORDER

  The train came to a shuddering halt under a deep blue cloudless sky.

  Sheppard was relieved when he jumped from their train and stepped once more onto the soft, grassy ground that seemed to go on forever to the horizon, like an endless green ocean. He felt as if they had been inside their train for far too long on this leg of their journey. The openness of the vast Kazakh steppes around him reminded him of the Canadian Prairies. He felt alive, free of his confines.

  They had stopped at a dilapidated train station just shy of the Mongolian border, so they could once more transfer trains for the final leg of their journey. Interference and questions from indifferent local officials and soldiers stuck out in the middle of nowhere along their route had proven to be just as Shipov had predicted, almost nonexistent. A quick flash of a couple of bottles of vodka combined with some gold under the table, and suddenly all was forgotten. The train was allowed to continue on its way, as if it had never existed, a phantom moving silently down the tracks.

  Campbell carefully swung himself down from the train, rubbed his throbbing leg, and then gingerly walked over to Sheppard, who was standing there filling his lungs with the warm, fresh air.

  “I’ve never seen so much open land in all my life,” said Campbell, looking around in wonder.

  “I know. It’s damned inspiring, isn’t it?” replied Sheppard as he cracked his neck. “The mid-west of the United States and Canada has land just like this. It seems to roll on to the horizon and then some.”

  “What now, sir?” asked Campbell as he watched Shipov order his men off the train.

  “We’re going to transfer between trains and then carry on our way.”

  “How much longer is this going to take? I hate to say it sir, but I feel like we’ve been traveling forever.”

  Sheppard kicked at some rocks by his feet and said, “Shipov isn’t sure, perhaps another three or four more days by train until we’re within striking distance of Turta. The problem is we can’t be sure about who or what we’ll bump into once we cross into Mongolia.”

  “That’s not very reassuring, sir.”

  “Sorry, Harry, it’s the only answer I have at this time. Anyway, it’ll all be over soon, and
we can go home to sunny old London, finish dealing with Thomas’ estate, and then put this all behind us.”

  “As you say sir,” mumbled Campbell, swatting away several of the largest mosquitoes he had ever seen in his life.

  Sheppard removed his soft peak cap and ran his hand through his hair. He hadn’t bathed properly in a couple of weeks, and wondered when he would be able to enjoy some of the simple pleasures of life. He turned and watched Shipov and his men cross load their equipment onto the waiting train for the final leg of their journey. He was about to head back inside to retrieve his precious few personal possessions, when he saw a dust cloud on the horizon start to grow larger and closer to them by the second. Bringing his hand up to block the sun from his eyes, Sheppard peered at the cloud and saw that it was a group of horsemen rapidly approaching the train.

  “Colonel, we have company,” yelled out Sheppard to Shipov, pointing towards the horsemen.

  Shipov looked towards the approaching riders and then wildly waved his arms in the air to get their attention.

  Sheppard saw the lead man wave back. The column of cavalry slowed down and then came to a halt in front of Shipov. The group’s leader leaped off his horse and ran to Shipov, throwing his arms around him and kissing him on both cheeks. Sheppard was curious who these men were and what they were doing all the way out here in the middle of nowhere.

  Sheppard strolled over. “Care to share with me who our new-found friends are, Yuri?” he asked.

  “Of course Christopher, where are my manners,” Shipov replied as he dragged a blonde-haired man about Sheppard’s age with a long disfiguring scar down his left cheek towards Sheppard. “Captain Christopher Sheppard, please meet Major Vasily Baranov, my deputy.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance captain,” said Baranov as he shook Sheppard’s hand firmly.

  “Pleasure’s all mine,” replied Sheppard. “And please call me Chris.”

  Baranov nodded and smiled.

  “How many men did you bring?” Shipov asked his deputy.

  “Only thirty-six, sir, we’ve had problems with desertion to the Chinese. They pay better and several of the older men died from dysentery during the long winter,” reported Baranov.

  “The damned Chinese Warlords,” said Shipov bitterly. “Well, that’s thirty-six more than we had this morning,” said Shipov, trying to make the best of the news. “It’ll do. Won’t it, Christopher?”

  “Yuri, I’m hoping that we won’t need any more men, but if we do, I’m happy that Vasily and his men are with us,” said Sheppard, looking around at the small detachment of men Baranov had brought with him. All of them had long, thick beards and had the hard look of professional soldiers in their eyes. A welcome addition to Shipov’s young and untried volunteers, thought Sheppard.

  Shipov turned to his deputy and told him and his men to load themselves and their horses onboard the new train as soon as possible.

  “Yuri, how did Baranov know where to meet us? We’re in the middle of nowhere,” said Sheppard, looking out towards the endless horizon.

  “I told them that I would be here sometime this week,” said Shipov. “They have been waiting in a small town just to the west of here for close to a month now.”

  Sheppard looked at Shipov for a moment, wondering if there were any more surprises to come from his escort. He shook his head and then walked back to Campbell, who had been watching from a distance.

  Picking up his rifle, Sheppard wiped off some dust from the rifle then said to Campbell, “Looks like Colonel Shipov thinks this is going to get rough before it’s done.”

  “That’s wonderful news sir,” Campbell replied acerbically.

  To the north, the Red Hurricane sat idle. Inside the armoured train’s command carriage, Dmitri Grusian paced back and forth like a caged animal. His foul mood and growing anger fuelled by the fact that the train had been idle for over two hours while Captain Radek was outside bargaining with the local train station workers’ committee for fuel and water. It had now been a week since they had left Moscow, and the further they were from the central government, the more brazen the peasants became in their demands for money and goods.

  To Grusian, it seemed like these petty bureaucrats were deliberately trying to sabotage his mission…something he sure as hell wasn’t going to allow to happen. Didn’t they know he was a fellow believer in the revolution that he was on their side? How dare they delay a state security agent. Unable to take it anymore, in a fit of rage Grusian threw his cap across the room. Deciding that he had given them all more than enough time to sort out this ridiculous mess, he flung open the door and stormed off the train. Looking down the platform, Grusian could see Radek in a lively discussion with three civilian workers. This bloody well will not do, he thought. He called for two security soldiers standing by the train to join him. The men hurriedly fixed bayonets and then together they marched towards Radek and the meddlesome civilians.

  “What the hell is going on here, Comrade Captain Radek? Why are we not moving again?” Grusian demanded loudly.

  Radek knew things were about to turn ugly. Turning, he collected himself and then addressed his superior officer. “Comrade Colonel, these men wish us to pay too much money for our wood, and they have also demanded that we address a number of issues in a petition that they handed to me when we arrived,” explained a very flustered Radek.

  “Goddamn it, Captain Radek. Give me that damned petition,” Grusian growled.

  Radek handed it to him, only to see Grusian wrench it out of his hands and then hold it up for all to see. Grusian’s eyes seemed to burn with anger. Slowly, and very deliberately, he ripped the petition into pieces, which then like autumn leaves he let fall to the ground, littering the platform at their feet.

  “Now see here, comrade,” said one of the workers, an old hunched over man, shocked by Grusian’s unexpected conduct.

  Grusian instantly spun around and faced the man; his eyes burnt with hate. “You bloody anti-revolutionary pig. I don’t need to see anything, do you understand me?” he snarled, inches away from the surprised man’s face. “Now, comrades, tell me, what task do you perform for the people?”

  “I-I am the manager of this station,” replied the shocked older man, trying to step back from Grusian.

  “Comrade Colonel…I am the station’s telegraph operator,” said a young and very scared-looking man.

  “Comrade, I am a farmer and the elected Deputy of the People’s Collective,” said a middle-aged man with a dark, full beard. “Surely you understand that we just want what is fair and what should be coming to us,” said the People’s Deputy.

  Grusian’s face twitched as his rage boiled over. “What is fair? What is coming to you? I’ll give you all what is coming to you!” yelled Grusian.

  With that, in one fluid motion, Grusian drew his pistol, aimed it at the station manager’s head, and pulled the trigger. With a loud bang, the pistol fired. The man’s head snapped back, his blood splattering onto the two stunned men standing near him. The manager’s lifeless body slowly crumpled to the ground, spilling blood, and gore onto the terrified telegraph operator’s shoes. Seeing the blood, he instantly lost control of his bladder and wet himself.

  Grusian turned and signalled to the two well-armed security soldiers. He pointed at the station manager and said, “Take that piece of shit and hang him from the nearest telegraph pole. Make sure that you put a sign around his neck to say that he died a counter-revolutionary and an enemy of the state.”

  With that, the soldiers roughly grabbed the pleading man by the arms and dragged him away to his death.

  Grusian holstered his pistol and then looked deep into the eyes of the horrified telegraph operator. “Now, comrade, do you wish to join those bastards in hell?”

  Absolutely terrified, the young man was unable to speak, but not wanting to die he quickly shook his head in disagreement.

  Grusian placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Good man. Now, get on the wire
and tell all the stations along this line what has just happened, and that I expect fuel and water to be waiting when we arrive with no questions asked, from here on out. Understand?” Grusian said, tightly squeezing the man’s shoulder for emphasis.

  The young man nodded and then as fast as his legs would carry him, he fled to his office and started transmitting Grusian’s message.

  “Comrade Colonel, I must protest. We cannot simply commit murder every time we meet people who have an issue or complaint with the government,” said Radek, shaking his head in disgust as his soldiers hauled the screaming manager up the telephone pole, his legs kicking away in the air.

  Grusian turned his head and glowered at Radek. “Oh, can’t I, Comrade Captain? Well, just let them try to stop me again. If they do, I’ll hang a person every mile until we reach Mongolia. If you think, I’m bluffing, well, don’t. I say what I mean, and I mean what I say. Just remember Comrade Captain, that I have the authority to commandeer you and your blessed train. Don’t make me use that authority.” Grusian lingered for a moment, staring at Radek, before storming off to climb back on board the train.

  Radek looked down at the dead body of the People’s Deputy and then over at the station manager hanging by his neck, struggling in the air, waiting to die. Watching his men take what they wanted for supplies from the terrified locals made Radek ashamed. He made his mind up. From then on, he was going to display no emotion on his face, lest he betray himself to Grusian, but inside, he seethed in hatred towards the blunt instrument of state brutality that Grusian was. Radek had killed plenty of people for the revolution, but Grusian was different—he seemed to enjoy it, and Radek found that repulsive. The train left the station a half-hour later, with its macabre warning signs gruesomely displayed where they had died, as a warning for all to see.