“It would appear that our job just got far more complicated. Let’s get moving before the Reds arrive,” said Sheppard, taking off at the double.
They ran through the Mongolian tents as fast as their legs would carry them. Frightened livestock free of their pens fled in all directions while all around them panicked locals tried to tear down their homes and pack them up as quick as they could before they shared the same fate as the town.
Quickly climbing the hill where Ivanov was waiting, Sheppard stopped and turned just in time to see an armoured train pull into Turta’s heavily damaged train station. Doors to the carriages were thrown open and scores of khaki-clad soldiers began to disembark. Shaking his head at their bad luck, Sheppard started to think about how he was going to get in and out of the fort without being noticed, especially now that it was coming under siege by the Reds. Though he didn’t have any answers yet, he knew he would have to come up with something before the communists got their hands on the Czarina.
CHAPTER 16
THE SIEGE
Dimitri Grusian bolted awake the instant the Red artillery commenced its deadly bombardment. Jumping straight off the couch he had been napping on, Grusian swore a blue streak while he threw on his black leather jacket and cap and headed outside to see just what the hell was going on.
They had stopped a few miles to the north of Turta the night before, halted in their tracks by the backlog of Red Army trains using the rail line in front of them. Grusian was furious when he found out that the army had already crossed the border without waiting for him. Realizing there was nothing he could do about it in the middle of the night, Grusian decided to get some rest before linking up with the senior officer on the ground in the morning. He now regretted making such a foolish decision. He needed to control the situation in Turta, but now it appeared that some Red Army general had foolishly decided to conduct the attack before even speaking with Grusian.
Jumping down from his carriage, Grusian could see the gun line blasting away. Each gun illuminated against the reddish-grey dawn sky as it fired its deadly shells towards Turta.
Grusian ground his teeth in anger. Running back to their train, he yelled for Captain Radek to get up.
Stumbling out of his room barely dressed and still half-asleep, came Radek. “What is it, Comrade Colonel? What do you want?” asked Radek stifling a yawn.
“I want to speak to that bloody regimental commander, and I want to do it now,” said Grusian, seething in anger as he pointed down the line of train carriages jammed nose to tail down the single line.
Still not sure what was going on, Radek picked up a wall-mounted telephone, turned the hand crank a few times and then told his armoured car platoon commander to join him. A couple of minutes later, a young black-haired security lieutenant joined them. He entered the room, halted smartly, and with precision saluted Radek.
“Comrade Lieutenant Titov, I want you to dismount your armoured cars, form a detachment from the train’s complement and accompany Comrade Colonel Grusian forward to the regimental command post,” Radek ordered as he pulled on his dull red leather jacket.
“Yes, sir,” replied the young officer as he saluted Radek once more. He then turned to Grusian and saluted him. “Comrade Colonel, my men are well trained. We will be underway in fifteen minutes.”
Grusian was impressed with the lieutenant’s enthusiasm and bearing. He was the opposite of Radek’s seemingly bored indifference to the mission. Grusian mused that the young officer seemed to be the only one on the train who did things faster than a snail’s pace. Grabbing his personal weapons, a Makarov pistol and his razor-sharp meat cleaver, Grusian stepped outside into the crisp morning air and saw that the junior officer wasn’t exaggerating: his men moved quickly and professionally. Soon the armoured cars were all on the ground, marshalled into a column before their crews jumped in and made ready to depart.
“Comrade Colonel,” said Lieutenant Titov as he came over, snapped to attention, and saluted his superior.
“Yes, comrade?” said Grusian, without returning the officer’s salute. He was tiring with all the bourgeois protocol ingrained into Radek’s men.
“Sir, if you will come with me, you can ride in the lead car,” said Titov.
Grusian nodded and followed the young officer to his armoured car. His white-hot anger still simmering just beneath the surface, Grusian wanted to know why they had fired on the town without his permission…someone was going to pay dearly. Climbing into the lead car, Titov raised his arm and then crisply lowered it. One-by-one the cars departed, heading down the dirt road towards the sound of the firing guns.
“What the hell is going on, sir?” called out Ivanov to Sheppard as he and Elena came over the hill towards him.
Sheppard said, “As far as I can tell, the occupants of the fort seem to have really pissed off the Reds so much that they have sent a small army down here to deal with them.”
“It was awful,” Zakharov broke in, her voice still shaken. “I don’t think anyone escaped from the town.”
Sheppard looked around. “Where’s Orlov?”
“I’m here, sir,” called a cheery voice from behind Sheppard.
Turning about, Sheppard was relieved to see Orlov coming towards them with his arms loaded with food and several bottles of alcohol. “What on earth happened to you?”
Orlov replied, “I tried my best to speak Mongolian with the locals, but most people were smart enough to either just ignore me or laugh at my horrible attempts at speaking their language. So I decided to make the best of it and helped myself to some provisions from a store once the shelling started.”
“Bloody well done! I couldn’t stomach another meal of canned crap,” Sheppard told Orlov, as he helped himself to a bottle.
“Folks don’t get too excited, I think the meat is smoked yak.”
“I don’t care I'm starving,” said Elena, helping herself to some of the smoked meats.
“Looks to me like there’s thousands of them moving around the town. They all had shovels, picks and the like. I think they’re going to dig trenches,” said Orlov, looking over his shoulder back towards the ruined town. “Damn, that bombardment was scary. I thought I was going to crap my pants. I just grabbed my stuff and took off before anyone stopped me,” Orlov said merrily.
Sheppard opened the bottle, took a deep swig of something alcoholic, and handed the bottle to Elena. “Well, this really screws things for us,” he said, then paused for a moment as he considered the implications of what Orlov had just said. “All right, we’ll hole up here for the day. The woods should offer us some protection from observation; besides, I think our new friends’ attention is going to be focused on the fort and not on the terrain behind them. Once night falls, we’ll do what we came to do. Everyone eat up and get some sleep…you’re going to need it, trust me.”
“Corporal Ivanov, work out a sentry roster, one-hour shifts only, and make sure you damn well include me,” stressed Sheppard, eyeing the corporal.
“Yes, sir,” answered Ivanov as he chewed on a bite of smoked meat.
“Now, if any of you should fall asleep on me, I’ll kill you myself—so fear me, not the Reds,” Sheppard told them all bluntly.
Although exhausted from his night’s exertions, Sheppard volunteered for the first shift. He sat down with his back against a tall pine tree and then one at a time, he took his weapons apart to clean them. Sheppard didn’t want them jamming on him when he needed them the most.
Ivanov walked over and sat down beside Sheppard. “Sir, what you said back there. How do you intend to get in, and out of a guarded fort surrounded by who knows how many Reds?”
“You know, Corporal, I have no bloody idea,” said Sheppard, taking a long swig from his bottle. “I just know that if we don’t get in there tonight, the Reds will soon enough, and I for one will not let a young girl fall into their hands, not while I am still breathing.”
Reimer looked over the parapet at the ever-increasing number of
Red soldiers, and their equipment spread out in front of the fort. He guessed that there was now at least one infantry regiment encircling the fort on the landward sides. Try all they might, Reimer didn’t believe that they would ever succeed in getting inside the fort. He felt that it was impregnable. Originally built in the 1840s on a pre-existing monastery by the Russian Imperial Army, the fort had come under siege many times in its past and had never once fallen. The walls were thick and solid. Reimer knew it would take a miracle for someone to get inside his impregnable fortress. Watching two Red officers walk towards the fort with maps in hand made Reimer break out laughing.
“Pathetic. You are all nothing more than pathetic little piss-ants, working for the Red devils in Moscow,” Reimer yelled at the top of his lungs.
With one last act of defiance, Reimer spat towards the Reds and then, laughing to himself, he gave them the finger before leaving. Entering a stairwell, he quickly descended to the bottom floor. He was still laughing aloud and talking to himself when one of his men approached him.
“My prince, I can verify that there are at least two battalions of Red Guards, a battery of artillery, a couple of squadrons of cavalry and one armoured train outside of the fort,” said a white-bearded man wearing an old-fashioned threadbare Czarist infantry major’s uniform.
Reimer stopped in his tracks and with an eerie calmness about him turned to face the officer. “Major Morozov, don’t fret so much. We are invulnerable inside these walls. I have seen it in a vision; the Reds will throw themselves against these walls and then be sent to the very gates of hell for their arrogance. Have faith in me.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Morozov, not believing a word of what he was hearing. However, he knew better than to question Reimer, for those who questioned Reimer usually died.
“Things will unfold as they should. Now, just to make you happy, because I can see on your face that you don’t share my optimism, double the guard and give an extra ration of vodka to the men with their supper meal.”
“Yes, sir,” said Morozov as he saluted Reimer.
Reimer winked at his subordinate and then, singing to himself, he proceeded to his room to indulge in his afternoon habit.
Morozov watched Reimer leave as if he didn’t have a single care in the world. Somberly shaking his head, Morozov knew that if the Reds got their hands on him or anyone else inside the fort, that they’d all hang as enemies of the state, and he did not fancy slowly being strangled to death with a rope around his neck.
Campbell slowly climbed down from the engine. He ached all over and couldn’t remember the last time he had worked so hard, or for so long, on anything in his life. Taking an already dirty handkerchief from his pants, he wiped the sweat and grime from his forehead and then whistled loudly to get Shipov’s attention.
“What is it, Harry?” Shipov called out to him as he painfully hobbled slowly over towards Campbell.
“Colonel, if I understand the engineer well enough, I think we’re ok. All we need to do is fill her back up with water, and then we can get underway,” said Campbell.
Shipov came to life and said, “Excellent news Harry, how long until we can get underway?”
‘“Sir, I’m not an engineer, but I figure it’s going to take a few hours to get enough water from the lake, using a crap load of buckets, before we can continue on to Turta.”
Shipov enthusiastically shook Campbell’s hand and then asked the train’s engineer if what Campbell had just passed on was accurate. The old, toothless engineer nodded and said he also agreed that they could get moving in a few hours, but only if the repairs held. Shipov was ecstatic that they could finally get back into action. He called over his few remaining officers and gave orders to get the train on the move again. Looking towards Turta, Shipov wondered how Sheppard was doing, and if he was even still alive.
Crawling up to the crest of the hill overlooking the destroyed town, Sheppard watched the Red forces as they dug their siege trenches parallel to the fort. He remembered all too well how gruelling the work could be. Sheppard had covered his head with a khaki scarf, trying his best to blend in better with the natural surroundings around him. He was curious why the Reds had only shelled the town before moving into their positions around the fort. As far as he could tell, not a single shot had been fired at the fort since their arrival. Although fatigued and desperately in need of more sleep, Sheppard knew that he had to come up with some sort of a plan before the sun went down. Trying to sneak through the Reds’ lines was a non-starter. There were just too many of them down there and someone was bound to challenge them, and that would be the end of it, and them.
Adjusting his position slightly, Sheppard raised his binoculars, scanned over towards the abandoned Mongolian quarter, and saw that the Reds had even extended their siege lines all the way down to the lakeshore, blocking off that avenue of approach as well. Cursing the overly efficient staff officer planning the siege, Sheppard was becoming extremely frustrated. It seemed that Red soldiers now barred all of the avenues of approach to the fort. He was about to come down off the hill when he spotted something further down the shoreline almost hidden from view behind some tall bushes. Focusing his binoculars on the object, Sheppard saw that it was an abandoned fishing boat. It looked like nothing more than a hollowed out canoe, perhaps no more than eight feet long, but it at least had potential. Thinking over his options, Sheppard knew that, realistically, he now had only one viable option open to him. Carefully, he backed down off the hill and rejoined his party.
“Anything, sir?” asked Elena, who also couldn’t sleep.
Sheppard leisurely sat down on the grass, put his binoculars away in his pack, and then looked up at her. “How well can you swim, Elena?”
The small column of armoured cars came to halt just outside of a large khaki bell-tent surrounded by Red soldiers. Leaping down, Grusian strode towards the command post, only to have his path barred by two soldiers, bayonets on their rifles levelled at him.
“Out of my way,” snarled Grusian as he grabbed onto the muzzle of one of the rifles.
The sound of a round being chambered by the other soldier into his rifle made Grusian freeze in his tracks and release his grip on the other rifle. Stepping back, Grusian could tell by the serious look in the soldiers’ eyes that these weren’t the usual people he was used to dealing with. Life on the border must be hard and brutal, thought Grusian, looking into the steely gaze of the young men barring his way.
A captain was called for. After checking Grusian’s papers, he was led inside. Huddled over a table were several senior officers, engaged in an energetic discussion over what to do next. A minute later, a broad-chested general with very short brown hair walked over and stopped in front of Grusian.
“Yes Comrade Colonel, how can the People’s Red Army help you?” asked the general.
“Comrade General, with all due respect, I don’t care a thing about your bloody little expedition against the counter-revolutionary shits hiding in that stinking fort of theirs,” said Grusian bluntly. “I need you to understand that I am here under orders of Comrade Menzhinsky, head of State Security,” said Grusian, trying to intimidate the officer.
“Comrade Colonel, I know who Comrade Menzhinsky is, and I knew all about your mission several days ago,” replied the general without flinching. “I was told to expect you and to give you whatever assistance I could, as long as it does not interfere with my mission to destroy the counter-revolutionary and his private mercenary army of White bandits,” bluntly replied Brigadier-General Platov.
Realising that the general could not be frightened using Comrade Menzhinsky’s name, Grusian tried another tactic. “Comrade General, please understand that I have very explicit orders to come here and then to contact Moscow for further directions. I am sure that we can work together to squash this annoying little bug. May I use your signals section to contact Moscow?”
General Platov was no fan of the state security service, having run afoul of their prying agen
ts several times in the past, but as long as Grusian kept out of his way, he was willing to tolerate him being here. With a disingenuous smile on his face, Platov said, “Comrade Colonel, you really should have said so before barging into my command post full of piss and vinegar. Your orders were transmitted to my headquarters last night, and I will support you in any way that I can.”
Grusian felt his temper rising. The general was just another pompous fool thinking he was a big fish in a small pool. Deciding to keep himself in check, Grusian smiled and then held out his hand. “Comrade General, may I have my orders?”
“Certainly, Colonel,” said Platov, calling one of his aides over, who then hurried off to fetch Grusian’s orders.
Platov was bored with Grusian’s presence, so he turned his back on him and carried on giving orders to his staff as if Grusian was not even present in the tent. A minute later, the young officer returned with a sealed envelope, which he handed to General Platov. Without bothering to say a word, Platov simply passed the letter to Grusian and then went back to work.
Controlling his growing rage took all of Grusian’s concentration. Without saluting his superior officer, Grusian took his orders and strode out of the command post. Taking a deep breath, Grusian was happy to be outside and away from the fools running the bloody Red Army. Walking back to his armoured car, Grusian opened the door and climbed back inside. Not wanting to be bothered, he closed the door for privacy. Grusian then carefully opened and read his orders:
Comrade Colonel Grusian,
Trust no one. Make personal contact with Colonel Reimer immediately. Offer him his freedom in exchange for the granddaughter of Major General Alekseev, currently his prisoner. If need be, offer him anything you want to obtain the girl. Once you have her, eliminate Reimer, and then return with the girl, unharmed, to Moscow. Use the Red Army to your advantage, but tell them nothing.
The Last Eagle (A Christopher Sheppard Adventure Book 1) Page 17