Still shivering, Sheppard reached for his blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. Looking about, he saw that the early-morning fog that had come up off the lake, covering the horizon for as far as he could see.
Something wasn’t right.
Sheppard suddenly felt uncomfortable. It was no longer dark. The grey twilight of early morning made it easy for Sheppard to see his watch. It was well past four. Why hadn’t he been woken for his shift? He would be pissed at Ivanov if he had left him sleeping just because he was an officer. Sheppard had volunteered for a shift, and he damn well-expected to be woken for it.
A feeling in Sheppard’s stomach told him to be wary.
Grabbing his Avtomat, he peered into the mist, released the safety catch, and then warily started to walk over to where the sentries had been posted the night before, when something imperceptible, ghostlike, made him freeze in his steps. Once again, his heart started to race, and his stomach quickly knotted in fear. Slowly getting down on one knee, he brought his rifle up to his right shoulder and scanned around looking for whatever or whoever it was that had spooked him. He heard twigs snapping somewhere in front of him, and then something came into view. Sheppard could just barely make out the silhouette of a man slowly moving through the mist, as if he were stalking something, or someone. Sheppard gritted his teeth, certain that someone was trying their best to sneak up on his sleeping party.
The man was moving in the direction of the hut. Reaching down, Sheppard slowly took his knife from its sheath and then ever so quietly slung his rifle on his back. Rising carefully, without making a sound, Sheppard started to hunt the unsuspecting man.
His quarry stopped and peered inside the rundown shack through a hole in the wall. He was about to turn away, when Sheppard leaped at him. Lightning fast, Sheppard grabbed the unwary man around the throat and swiftly placed his sharp blade against it. Using his size and strength, Sheppard pulled the man off balance and then forced him down on his knees.
“Who are you and what do you want?” Sheppard growled, into the helpless man’s ear.
Foolishly, the man reached up and pulled against Sheppard’s arm, which was tightly wrapped around his throat, in a vain attempt to free himself.
“I asked you a question. Who are you?” Sheppard said angrily, as he pushed down on the blade, drawing a trickle of blood.
“My name is Petr Sorokin. I-I am a deserter,” said the man, gasping for air.
Sheppard wrapped his arm tighter around his victim’s neck. “Sorry for you Petr, but I don’t believe you. Now tell me the truth, or I will kill you,” warned Sheppard, as he dug the blade deeper into the man’s neck.
The man hesitated for a moment, and then blurted out, “Alright, so I’m not a deserter. Please don’t kill me.”
“That’s better, who do you work for? And no more lies,” said Sheppard, not letting up his hold on the man’s throat.
Sheppard was so focused on his prey that he failed to realise they weren’t alone.
Without warning, a man charged out of the mist like a wild boar and barrelled head long into Sheppard, knocking him and his captive straight through the rotted wooden walls of the hut. They hurled through the air before hitting the ground, tumbling over one another inside the barn, before finishing up on top of several of the still sleeping soldiers. Sheppard brought his free hand down hard on his man’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him, before tossing him across the room and jumping up to face his new opponent.
The other man stepped forward and clumsily thrust a knife towards Sheppard’s chest. Jumping back, Sheppard swiftly reached down for his assailant’s outstretched hand and grabbed it firmly. Mustering all his strength, Sheppard pulled the man off his feet and then swung his own knife hard into the attacker’s unprotected ribcage. Sheppard felt the knife strike home. His foe let out a moan as Sheppard pushed the knife deep into the man’s chest. The man’s feet buckled underneath him. Not taking any chances, Sheppard removed the knife and then in a sharp motion thrust the blade into the man’s side several more times, killing the man.
Suddenly, a shot rang out inside the hut, followed quickly by another. Muzzle flashes illuminated the room. The noise stung Sheppard’s ears. Spinning on his heels towards the firing, Sheppard saw Zakharov standing there, her rifle in her hands, looking down at the crumpled body of their other attacker.
“Good shooting,” Sheppard complimented her.
“I have never killed a man before,” said Elena, continuing to stare down numbly at the lifeless body.
Sheppard reached over and gently lowered her rifle. “It’s all right. It was him or us, and I prefer that you killed him.”
Elena went pale and then bolted out of the room to throw up.
Sheppard was about to go outside and console her, when he noticed that one of their group was not moving. Bending over, Sheppard examined the motionless body and discovered that he had been shot during the melee inside the barn. Sheppard was furious with himself for having allowed any of this to happen. Gathering his wits, he realised there could still be other attackers out there in the mist coming to kill them.
He turned to Ivanov, wanting to vent his anger on the man, but decided otherwise and said, “Take up positions in the hut while I got outside and take a look around and see if they were alone or not. And for God’s sake, make sure it’s not me should you decide to shoot anyone.”
Clutching his Avtomat firmly in his hands, Sheppard stepped outside the barn and darted into the nearby woods for cover. Stopping to listen for anyone else moving about, Sheppard was relieved to hear that he was the only thing moving around in the fog. He slowly made his way to a small rise where the sentries had last been seen. As Sheppard had suspected, they were dead, their throats cut. They had been left there to bleed out.
“Damn foolish amateurs,” Sheppard mumbled angrily to himself.
The mist started to thin, and Sheppard decided to move to the next ridgeline in order to see what he might be able to observe from the higher ground. Moving cautiously, he got down on all fours and then onto his stomach as he reached the crest of the ridge. Slowly peering over the crest, Sheppard’s heart jumped when, no more than twenty paces away, he spied another man. Realising that he hadn’t been seen, Sheppard moved a few paces to one side and then once more carefully peered over the ridge. The man was idly standing there smoking a cigarette while holding the reins of three horses, apparently unaware he was being observed. Sheppard wanted the man alive, but he was too far away for him to sneak up on, so he decided he would try the direct approach. Drawing his pistol from his holster, he stood in full view of his prey.
The man’s eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped at Sheppard’s sudden, apparition-like appearance. He spat out his cigarette and then clumsily went for his rifle. Sheppard fired his pistol straight at the man’s right shoulder, sending him tumbling onto the ground, writhing in pain.
“If you try for your weapon again, I’ll kill you,” said Sheppard menacingly, as he walked over to the man, picked up his rifle and then threw it away. Reaching over, he grabbed the wounded man by his filthy jacket collar and hauled him to his feet.
“Now, walk,” Sheppard ordered, pointing in the direction of the hut with his pistol.
A few seconds later one of the young soldiers called out. “Corporal, someone’s coming.”
Ivanov ordered everyone to hold their fire and then watched with satisfaction and considerable relief when Sheppard appeared out of the thin mist with a prisoner and three horses in tow. He stepped out of the barn and took the reins from Sheppard.
“Who is he?” Ivanov asked, looking suspiciously at the wounded man.
“I don’t know,” Sheppard replied. “Let’s ask.”
Ivanov tied the man to a wooden post just outside the barn, while Sheppard told him the unfortunate fate of his two sentries. Sheppard told Ivanov to get his people ready to move right away. They would eat breakfast later, once they had put some distance between themselves and this place.
Sheppard approached the prisoner and handed him a flask of water taken from one of the dead attackers. The man drank it down and then asked for more.
“Sorry, mate, I only found one flask on your dead friends,” said Sheppard, turning the bottle upside down showing it was empty. “I can’t give you ours. I'm sure you understand,” Sheppard said as he knelt beside the man. “Now be a good fellow and tell me who you are, and what you are doing out here in the middle of nowhere following my friends and I.”
“We work for General Reimer. We are true Russian patriots, like yourself. You people don’t look like Reds to me,” said the captive, trying to win Sheppard’s favour.
“I shan’t bother to debate with you which one of us is the greater patriot right now. All I know for sure is that you were following us all day yesterday and that you have somehow successfully managed to kill three of my party.” Sheppard adjusted his position so he could look right into his captive’s dirt encrusted face. “What I want to know is, why?”
The man licked his parched lips and then squirmed in his bindings. “We were told to be on the lookout for strangers. My men and I didn’t recognise you, so we decided to follow you. Please, sir, give me some more water…I’m really thirsty,” pleaded the man.
Sheppard said nothing in reply. He leaned forward, grabbed the man’s wounded shoulder, and then squeezed it hard, causing the man to wince and recoil in pain.
“Then why murder our sentries? You were after something. Now, what was it?” Sheppard demanded as he twisted the bleeding shoulder some more.
The man grimaced in pain. “All right, I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you, just please, for the love of God, don’t do that anymore.”
“Well, I’m waiting.”
“It’s the girl. We saw that you had a girl with you. We just wanted a bit of fun with her. You’re a man—you understand, don’t you?”
Sheppard stood. The man disgusted him. He would waste no more time on him. Turning away from their captive, he walked over to Ivanov and the rest of the group. “Corporal, I am sorry that we don’t have time to bury your friends. Send two men to retrieve the bodies of your dead sentries,” said Sheppard. “We’ll place them in here and then burn the barn to the ground. Also, strip Reimer’s dead and distribute some of their clothing to our people, to help us blend in.”
Ivanov nodded in agreement and then gave orders to what remained of their party.
Fifteen minutes later, with the barn fully ablaze, Sheppard mounted his horse and watched the fire rapidly consume the structure. The wood spat and crackled as it caught light and collapsed in on itself.
“Hey, what about me? You can’t leave me here, there are wolves out here,” yelled the prisoner, still tied to the pole.
“How true,” said Sheppard to himself.
“Sir?” said Ivanov.
Sheppard leaned over in his saddle until he was only inches away from his young deputy, his face expressionless, his voice cold, uncaring. “Corporal Ivanov, those bastards wanted us all dead and Private Zakharov for themselves. I’m going to lead the party to the next ridgeline. Perhaps you should stay behind for a couple of minutes to make sure that we left nothing behind which might give us away.”
Ivanov looked down at their captive and smiled. “I’ll only be five minutes behind you, sir.”
Sheppard said, “Don’t waste your time here. I won’t wait for you. Do what you think needs to be done and then get a move on.”
Sheppard spurred on his horse and led the survivors away, leaving Ivanov and the murderous traitor alone.
CHAPTER 15
TURTA
The air was heavy and still. A smoky haze hung like a blanket over the tiny settlement nestled comfortably against the long blue-green lake.
In the distance, on a small rocky outcropping, Sheppard crawled up into a comfortable position, raised his binoculars, and slowly surveyed the town. It was tiny by European standards, but it was the largest settlement they had seen since arriving in Mongolia. The community was a mix of older brick structures combined with newer wooden homes and buildings located predominantly in the centre of the tiny neighbourhood. Outside of the town, Sheppard saw a substantial number of Mongolian bell-tent style dwellings that he knew were called yurts, hugging the shoreline. On the lake, many local fishermen were already out, trying to make their living. Turning his attention towards the far end of the town, Sheppard grinned when he observed a very old, rusting steam train with a couple of derelict cars connected to it sitting idle in the town’s long abandoned train station. At least, there was a place for spare parts if need be, flashed through Sheppard’s mind.
To Sheppard, the town looked rather peaceful, as if it didn’t want to be bothered by the troubles of the world around it. Looking away, Sheppard turned his attention to a rocky hill overlooking the town. Built solidly upon it was an impressive fortress where the young Czarina was being held. It was an imposing rectangular stone structure, which looked like it had been converted from an old monastery sometime in the last century. Sheppard judged the walls to be about a yard or more thick, very solid. There were four turreted towers, one at each corner, which could easily see anyone who tried to approach. The walls were smooth and appeared to be about five to six yards high. Too tall to scale alone, Sheppard thought to himself. Figuring that he had seen enough, he was about to leave his observation point, when something caught his eye. The fort’s large imposing wooden front gate slowly swung open. From inside the fort came a brightly polished silver car, followed by a green military-style truck packed with soldiers. Grinning, Sheppard noted that whoever lived in the fort at least had good taste in automobiles. He recognised the vehicle as a four-cylinder Vauxhall 30/98. Sheppard watched the vehicles depart from the fort and then leisurely turn north onto a road heading away from the town. Satisfied that he couldn’t possibly learn anything else from where he was, Sheppard carefully backed down from the crest of the hill and re-joined his waiting party.
“Anything, sir?” asked Ivanov.
Sheppard nodded. “Looks serene enough down there, I didn’t see too many of Reimer’s men moving around outside the fort. We should be all right for now.”
“It’ll be dark soon. What do you want to do, sir?”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m absolutely famished. Let’s eat something and then decide on our next course of action. I really want to get a better look at that fort as soon as the sun goes down,” Sheppard said as he rummaged through his small pack for another can of surplus mystery meat.
Harry Campbell rubbed his aching leg and then winced with pain as he stood. For the first time in ages, he felt like he needed a rest. Campbell had been working alongside the train’s engineer all day long under the hot sun trying to fix the holes in the boiler made by the Red plane. His frustration was exacerbated by the fact that he couldn’t communicate clearly with anyone as to what they needed to do to fix their problems. Shipov came and went, so he had no one there permanently to translate for him. Using hand signals and yelling in English at his fellow workers toiling away on the problem only went so far.
Deciding that he had best just get on with it, Campbell shook out his leg, walked back to the engine and looked at the state of the repairs. Between himself and the engineer, they had crudely fixed about half the holes so far. Instead of allowing himself to become despondent over his predicament, Campbell picked up a hammer and started to bang on a sheet of metal to form it into shape so it could be placed onto yet another hole. All the while, he wondered how Sheppard was doing, and if he was progressing any better than the rest of the party.
Night fell. The lake became alive with a cacophony of frogs calling to one another, competing with the buzz from the never-ending stream of annoying mosquitoes.
Sheppard looked over his handpicked team one last time, wanting to make sure in his mind that they were good to go. It was a drill he knew all too well. Having led many trench raids as a junior officer, Sheppard had learned the hard way that checking all of
your people before they left could save lives later. Deciding that fewer were better when bumbling around in the dark in unknown territory, Sheppard selected only two other soldiers to accompany him. Coming with him were Privates Elena Zakharov and Taras Orlov. Zakharov was coming to speak with any women they might bump into in the dark. Orlov was there because he claimed that he could speak at least some Mongolian, which Sheppard judged was better than none.
They were dressed in a mix of Russian and Mongolian clothing taken from their slain attackers. Sheppard ordered their Avtomats to be left behind as they were far too conspicuous and would easily give them away. They would only be armed with pistols, knives and the older Mosin-Nagant bolt-action rifles they had confiscated from Reimer’s dead men.
Sheppard looked over at Ivanov and said, “Corporal, I want you to keep yourself safe. Take some shelter in the nearest copse of trees for the night, you, and Belov stay there. We’ll meet back here in the morning,” said Sheppard trying to sound optimistic.
Ivanov looked dejected at not being selected to go on the reconnaissance of the town, but nodded that he understood what was expected of him.
“Don’t fret, someone has to man the fort while we’re out,” Sheppard consoled him, slapping the corporal on the shoulder. “Stay alert—we may need to leave here quickly, should we be detected.”
Turning to his two companions, Sheppard waved in the direction of the town, then, trying to look like the belonged there, they stepped off into the darkness. It took them less than five minutes to reach the Mongolian tents on the outskirts of the town. As they walked along, Sheppard’s party was largely ignored by the locals, who were too busy cooking their supper to care about more Russians wondering about in their village. Reimer’s men were constantly coming and going from the fort. What were three more foreigners to them?
The Last Eagle (A Christopher Sheppard Adventure Book 1) Page 15