The Last Eagle (A Christopher Sheppard Adventure Book 1)

by Richard Turner

  “Colonel, what is it that you propose to do?” asked Father Grigory, breaking the silence.

  A smile spread across Shipov’s face. “Order everyone off the train and to form up here in ten minutes. We have a train to catch.”

  His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark. Sheppard could see a sliver of light coming from where the door was hinged to the wall. Without a thought to the burning pain in his wrists, Sheppard kept rhythmically twisting his wrists back and forth, trying to loosen his bindings. His body screamed at him from all of the beatings that he had taken recently. Realizing that he was getting nowhere fast, he slumped over and let out a deep sigh. Sweat poured off his brow and into his eyes. Shaking his head to clear the sweat, Sheppard shimmied along on his backside until he came to a corner of the tiny, darkened room. Bending his knees, Sheppard crawled his way up the wall until he was finally standing. A loud crack of thunder suddenly shook the room, followed almost immediately by the sound a heavy downpour, which seemed amplified tenfold on the metal armor surrounding the carriage.

  Sheppard started to edge around the room looking for a sharp object to try and cut the rope holding his hands behind his back. Suddenly, the train rocked forward slightly, nearly throwing him off his feet. A second later, it rocked again and then started to slowly crawl forward. Sheppard’s heart sank when he realized that they were leaving Turta. He had to find a way out of this mess. Gritting his teeth, he started to move around the smooth metal walls, feeling along with his fingers, hoping that he could find something sharp to set him free.

  Captain Radek sat at his desk eating a cold supper of black bread, oranges and smoked meats. He looked over at the two female prisoners sitting there looking miserable in their dirty peasant clothing. They hardly looked like a threat to state security to him. Both were tired, disheveled and in dire need of a warm bath. Radek looked at his watch the instant the train started down the tracks. He figured that with luck that they might make the border by daybreak, and that would make him happy. He had lost a few men and all but one of his prized armored cars on this little adventure. Radek was looking forward to returning to Moscow and the less stressful life he had there. Rising from his desk, he walked over and offered the Alekseevs some food.

  “Thank you, Captain, your kindness is greatly appreciated,” said Mrs. Alekseev as she accepted the food.

  “Please, Madame, think nothing of it,” replied Radek, with a slight bow to Mrs. Alekseev.

  Grusian had been lying on the couch until he saw Radek offer food to the prisoners. Slowly, he sat up and spoke. “Comrade Captain, I have no problem with you feeding the prisoners; after all, they need their strength for their upcoming trial in Moscow as enemies of the State. However, being polite to such bourgeoisie scum turns my stomach. It’s truly revolting to see you kowtow to these enemies of the people.”

  “Comrade Colonel, they may be traitors, as you claim, but I don’t see the need to be rude to women,” replied Radek.

  Grusian let out a loud laugh and then stood up. “Comrade, that foolish statement is exactly why the revolution needs people like me. You are weak and still harbour outdated notions of chivalry, while I most certainly do not. I will see this thing to the end and have these Czarist whores hung, even if it is the last thing I ever do,” Grusian proclaimed, before turning to pick up some food for himself from Radek’s table.

  The rain was coming down like a waterfall. Two miserable-looking Red soldiers stood on guard at the entrance to the town’s destroyed train station. Their heavy woolen khaki greatcoats had absorbed the water, making the wearers cold, miserable, and very uncomfortable. They shuffled their feet to keep warm and tried standing under anything that would give them some shelter from the rain, but nothing seemed to help. It would be another two hours before either of them would be relieved, and that made the time seem to drag on forever. Suddenly, out of the gloom came a column of wounded Red soldiers. Some were walking, while others were being carried on stretchers. They all looked thoroughly miserable too.

  A man wearing a medic’s armband came forward. “Good evening, comrades, I am Comrade Doctor Shipov. Where can I load these wounded heroes from today’s glorious fight?”

  Both Red soldiers looked at one another in confusion. “I am sorry, Comrade Doctor, this is General Platov’s private train. I don’t know where the aid station is,” replied one of the guards.

  “Oh, I see,” said Shipov, taking off his cap. He stood there and ran his hand through his wet salt-and-pepper hair. “Where are all the other guards? Perhaps they know where I can take my wounded?” asked Shipov, as he looked around the platform.

  “We’re it, comrade. All the other men are either sleeping or celebrating our victory in the fort,” replied the other Red soldier enviously.

  “Well that makes a lot of sense,” said Shipov, as he replaced his cap and then swiftly drew his pistol and aimed it at the guards. “Make a noise and as God is my witness I will kill both of you where you stand.”

  Both men stared down the barrel of Shipov’s raised pistol in disbelief.

  “Take their weapons, bind, and gag them,” Shipov ordered to the closest soldiers behind him. Then, walking over to the first stretcher in line, he pulled the covers down, revealing their train’s engineer. “Well, what do you think? Can you operate this train?” said Shipov, pointing up at the train’s engine.

  “Not a problem, colonel, not a problem at all, but I’ll need that Englishman to help me. Can’t understand a word he says, but he seems to know engines, and I need all the help I can get,” said the old engineer.

  “Done. Harry, help the engineer,” said Shipov in English to a man lying still under a blanket on a stretcher. “And Baranov, get our people on this train. I want to be out of here as soon as possible,” Shipov barked at his men.

  It was now just a question of whether they could catch up with the other train and somehow force it to stop.

  Shipov grinned to himself; after all they had been through, they were still in the game.

  Sheppard felt as though he had been searching the blackened room forever. Sweat covered his face and soaked his shirt. He was about to give up hope, when the door to the room was flung open and light flooded in, temporarily blinding him. Two hands reached in, grabbed him, and then pulled him out into the middle of the troop carriage.

  “Hold still,” someone ordered from behind him.

  Sheppard was surprised to feel the rope cut from his wrists. As soon as his hands were free, he moved them in front and started to massage his aching and tender wrists trying to get the circulation flowing again.

  “Follow me,” said a young lieutenant.

  To make sure he didn’t get out of line, a soldier stepped behind Sheppard and shoved a pistol painfully into his back; a hand was placed on his shoulder to forcefully guide him. The junior officer led Sheppard out of the compartment and then over onto another armoured carriage.

  Sheppard felt the cool wind and rain on his face as they moved between cars. He looked around and saw that it was pitch black outside. He could not see more than a few dozen yards into the night. Without warning, the pistol was thrust hard into his back again. Sheppard grunted from the sudden painful jolt in his back. Turning his head, he gave the soldier a filthy look.

  “Follow the officer,” snarled the soldier.

  “You need to learn some manners,” said Sheppard before following the young officer. They entered the next carriage, where Sheppard was led past a bored-looking guard and then into a spacious and quite luxurious cabin. Inside, he saw the Alekseevs sitting together on a couch. They looked scared and exhausted, but unhurt. Sheppard was relieved to see them alive.

  Looking around the room, he observed several other guards and a fat little red-haired officer sitting behind a desk. Then he eyed the merciless colonel who had mercilessly beaten him earlier. Sheppard’s eyes narrowed and his blood seethed with hate at the sight of the sadistic officer.

  “Come in, Captain Sheppard, please have a sea
t,” said Grusian, waving to Sheppard as if he were an old friend.

  A hand guided Sheppard over to a waiting table and forced him to sit down.

  “Now, isn’t this much more civilized, Captain?” said Grusian.

  “Yes, immeasurably,” Sheppard replied, eyeing the food on the table.

  Grusian stood and walked over to Sheppard. “Now, Captain Sheppard—if that’s your real name—I have been thinking about this for the past two hours. Why would a foreign spy bother coming all this way and risk his life for two wretched White traitors such as these two women,” Grusian asked, fixing his cold gaze on the Alekseevs.

  Sheppard sat up in his chair and tried stretching his aching muscles. “Colonel, I am who I claim to be. My name is Captain Christopher Sheppard, retired from the Army. However, comrade, I am not a spy, just someone who wanted to see these poor ladies freed from that lunatic Reimer.”

  “I don’t believe you. You are a spy. You will be tried and shot as one,” yelled Grusian, losing his cool.

  “Sorry, comrade, it’s just not true.”

  Sheppard saw anger flare up on his opponent’s face. Before he could move, he was struck so hard across the face by Grusian that he went flying backwards over his chair and onto the floor of the carriage. He heard a woman scream. Looking up, he saw Nadya Alekseev standing there with a look of horror on her face.

  “Get up, you lousy piece of filth,” snarled Grusian.

  Sheppard slowly got to his feet and faced Grusian. He could see that his adversary was growing impatient and would most likely want to beat him some more, so he resigned himself for a long night.

  “I want to know why you came to Mongolia and why you think it so important to try and steal these two Czarist whores away from the justice of the people.”

  Sheppard wasn’t going to tell Grusian a thing, but he also didn’t want to get another beating from the powerful thug, either.

  “Comrade, what can I tell you? I am not a spy. I am honestly here because of family connections,” Sheppard insisted, hoping not to get struck again.

  Grusian stepped close to Sheppard’s face. “If you won’t tell me, then perhaps you will tell Sergeant Aksenov. I hear that he’s quite good at extracting confessions from traitors and counter-revolutionaries.” Grusian turned to face the security lieutenant. “Take him back to the troop carriage and give him to Sergeant Aksenov. I don’t care if he lives or not, but I want a confession from this foreign spy.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the young officer, smiling at the thought.

  Sheppard once again felt the pistol being jabbed into his back. He looked at Nadya and saw terror in her eyes. Although scared himself, he refused to show it. Sheppard locked eyes with Nadya and gave her a quick wink before turning to go back to the other carriage. He honestly couldn’t see a way out of his current predicament, but he knew he had to try something. It looked as if he would either be forced to tell everything he knew, or be beaten to death. Neither possibility filled him with much joy.

  Bright silvery flashes of sheet lighting lit up the night sky, illuminating the train tracks and the wide-open steppes ahead of their train. Harry Campbell had left the engine to go and speak with Shipov. Their stolen train was making remarkably good time. Unlike the OGPU train, which consisted of nine cars, theirs had only four—an armored engine, an armored cabin and two flat cars, each with a 76mm gun wedged in sandbags, one at either end of the train.

  Commandeering the train had proven to be easier than thought. Aside from a few men on duty, the majority of the train’s occupants were in the fort celebrating their recent victory.

  Shipov was sitting in the rain on the forward flat car engaged in an animated discussion with Father Grigory.

  Campbell pulled his cap down turned up his tunic’s collar to keep out the rain, and then wove his way around groups of men and piles of equipment to get to Shipov. “Colonel, we’re doing fairly well. We can keep this speed up for hours, without needing to stop for fuel or water,” Campbell assured him confidently.

  “Excellent news, Harry,” replied Shipov, slapping Campbell on the back.

  Campbell wished Shipov would stop hitting him, but decided to wait until it was all over to tell him. “Sir, what’s your plan when we catch up with the other train?”

  “Harry, I intend to disable its engine with one of these 76mm guns,” explained Shipov, pointing to a gun mounted on the open on the car. “And then I intend to storm it with my men.”

  Campbell knew Shipov’s force had taken crippling losses over the past few days and that any attempt to fight their way inside the Red train would result in even more heavy losses. Still, the look in Shipov and his men faces unbelievably seemed more determined than ever.

  “Well, I should head back and help the engineer work his magic,” said Campbell, turning to leave.

  “Harry, you wouldn’t know anything about field pieces, would you?” Shipov asked. “None of my men ever served in the artillery.”

  Campbell felt his stomach drop. “Good God,” mumbled Campbell,” Colonel, you’re lucky to have me. I served in the artillery, before being injured in 1918,” replied Campbell proudly.

  “Excellent news,” said Shipov. “I will send one the less injured men back to work with the engineer. I need you to show us how to load and fire these guns. I doubt that it can be that hard to fire a cannon from one moving train at another.”

  Campbell’s stomach dropped again.

  Sheppard watched as the lieutenant opened the door in front of them and then stepped outside onto the metal sheet between the two rocking cars. Sheppard hesitated for a moment, before feeling the pistol’s barrel sharply poke into his back. Suddenly, he spun about, quickly reaching behind and grabbing onto the open carriage door, then as hard as he could he swung at the guard’s outstretched arm behind him.

  Sheppard felt it hit home.

  The man yelped in pain as the door smashed hard into his forearm, nearly breaking it.

  Swiftly, Sheppard turned on his heels, brought up his right leg, and then kicked the officer hard in the back, sending him flying hard against the closed carriage door. Turning fast, Sheppard grabbed the Red’s injured arm and twisted it as hard as he could. With a moan of pain, the guard released his grip on the pistol. Sheppard thrust his free hand out to grab it, but was too late. The pistol tumbled out of the injured guard’s hand, hitting the metal floor and then bouncing into the open space between the two moving carriages, disappearing forever.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Sheppard saw the stunned security officer turning about, his hand reaching for his holster. Pulling hard on the stunned guard’s injured arm, Sheppard threw him towards the young lieutenant. The two men collided and tumbled back onto the closed door of the other car.

  Sheppard knew that his luck couldn’t hold.

  Launching himself at the two stunned Reds, he delivered a sharp blow to the soldier’s kidneys, causing him to buckle to his knees. Sheppard saw the officer fumble for his pistol. Turning, he threw a solid punch into the man’s jaw, knocking him flat against the door. The iron grate was slick underfoot from the constant downpour. Sheppard struggled to keep his balance. The last thing he wanted to do was slip and fall under the tracks of the speeding train.

  He needed to win the fight quickly, Sheppard kicked the guard hard in the side of head, sending him crashing back into the startled lieutenant. Reaching down, Sheppard grabbed the guard by his jacket epaulettes and then with all his strength he threw the man out into the blackness. Turning on his heels, Sheppard brought his right elbow straight into Red lieutenant’s throat, causing him stagger backwards, gasping for air. With a savage right hook, Sheppard smashed his fist into his opponent’s stomach, doubling him over. Seeing an opening, Sheppard reached down for the man’s pistol, when suddenly he felt himself being grabbed from behind.

  Rough hands hauled him off his feet.

  The next thing he knew, he was flying through the air, landing hard against a closed carriage door. Hi
s already hurt ribs sent pain shooting through his body. Turning to look up to see what had happened, Sheppard saw a massive soldier reaching down for him.

  Sheppard kicked the man’s knee, trying to get him to drop. Any normal man would have buckled at the blow, but to the giant, is seemed to have no effect. Two massive hands shot out, grabbed Sheppard by the collar, and then effortlessly pulled him to his feet.

  “You okay, sir?” said the enormous soldier to the bloodied officer, while he held onto Sheppard, his feet dangling in the air.

  “I’m fine, Sergeant,” replied the officer, struggling to catch his breath. “He killed Deryabin. Colonel Grusian said he wants you to extract a confession from this bourgeoisie scum.”

  “Gladly,” said the sergeant as he carried Sheppard into the troop carriage where he had been a prisoner.

  A bright flash of jagged silver lightning lit up the night.

  “There, did you see it?” yelled a soldier standing next to Ivanov, excitedly pointing into the night.

  “No. No, I didn’t,” replied Ivanov. “Wait for the next flash of lightning and then point out what you saw,” said Ivanov, struggling to see in the blackness as the cold, biting rain struck his face, stinging him.

  Another spectacular flash ripped across the sky, revealing the track in front of them.

  “Damn, you’re right. It’s them,” said Ivanov when he saw the back of the other train.

  Quickly jumping down from his vantage point, Ivanov ran to the back of the flat car where Shipov and Grigory had hunkered down, out of the rain.

  “Sir, we’ve got them. A mile, maybe less, down the track,” announced Ivanov.

  Shipov jumped to his feet, causing agonising white-hot pain to shoot through his injured leg. He simply smiled at the pain. “Stand to…stand to!” yelled Shipov, spoiling for a fight. “All of our men to their stations. Prepare for battle.”

  Sheppard was thrust into the middle of the troop carriage. He staggered on his feet but managed to maintain his balance.