Iron Dogs and Caesar's Ruby

by Dave R. Mortensen

  The windows had a slightly-tinted laminate material on the inside that could deter most handgun rounds; the windshield was also armored the same way the presidential limos were; there was a layer of Kevlar inside all of the doors; the oversized tires were nearly bullet-proof and could run flat for over thirty miles; the front and rear bumpers and the frame had been reinforced so it could ram other vehicles as well as survive a side ramming; the roof-rack was an integral part of a fairly-well concealed roll cage; the gas tank and the auxiliary supply had a self-sealing lining; there was an auxiliary radiator system that would take over should the front-facing radiator lose pressure; the interior and engine compartment had separate fire-suppression systems and a coordinated hydraulic system controlled the suspension and shock absorbers so it could be raised six inches and lowered by four from a control on the console.

  He didn’t mention the variety of weapons he routinely carried in special compartments but he described the small vault in the floor in the back.

  “This is like the ones the Secret Service uses, isn’t it?” Calder asked.

  “Actually, not quite. They rely on heavier firepower and sheer numbers. It was done by the company that makes them for the Arab royal families – a French client of mine recommended them.”

  “So you haul things with it?”

  “Small things and even clients at times ... just like this.”

  “How did you get Texas plates and stickers?” Calder asked, looking at Kirkland with a new-found regard for what the man had meant by the phrase ‘exigent circumstances’.

  Kirkland sounded resigned to his fate as he explained, “I pay extortionate property taxes in seven states for the privilege ... they’re easy to switch.”

  Is that legal? Calder wondered. Then something about the man’s story dawned on him. There was no way he could have driven from New York. “If you flew in, how did you get this here?”

  CHAPTER 11

  Southern Ural Mountains, USSR, September, 1942

  When Kovpak became aware of what was happening with his plane, something in his mind told him there had to be a better answer than the American officer’s advice to bail out when a propeller runs away. Like thousands of aviators that went before him in the history of aircraft development, he found himself the sole subject of an impromptu aeronautical experiment; unlike a large percentage of those who had not survived those situations, Kovpak’s determination, his studied understanding of the plane coupled with extraordinary piloting skills gave him a life-saving advantage.

  He also had altitude – for a very short time. Avoiding the Airacobra’s propensity to spin, he somehow managed to bring the crippled aircraft to the ground in what became an uncontrolled, gear-up, sliding, bouncing, twirling and grinding journey across a snow-packed, flat and nearly level space he had seen from the air. With a loud crunching sound the plane finally jammed itself tail-first into in a heavily wooded thicket at the edge of the small valley.

  The abrupt stop itself wasn’t sufficient to render him unconscious but the pain spreading in the left side of his head told him that somewhere in the process he had struck something. He couldn’t see blood on his uniform but could feel a warm fluid slowly making its way down his left jaw and an odd numbness in his right forearm warned him that it might have been broken; an attempt at moving it brought on a flare of pain.

  The distinctly quiet surroundings of the wilderness area lulled him toward the comfort of unconsciousness and as he tried to resist the slowly collapsing tunnel of vision, the ticks of cooling metal and hisses of moisture being turned to steam somehow reminded him of being near locomotives in his youth. As he drifted out of reality he thought he saw his father standing on a railroad depot platform.

  - # -

  By the time Kovpak regained consciousness the ticking and hissing noises had stopped and the first fully-recognizable sensation he felt was the cold. It took an interminable period of time before his mind finally began putting together the pieces of the puzzle; he had survived a crash landing and at least the cockpit of the plane was relatively intact. An extreme feeling of relief washed through him as he realized there had been no fire – he hadn’t been among those pilots who had survived a landing only to be immolated as they struggled with their harness or pounded helplessly at a damaged canopy that wouldn’t open.

  An ill-advised attempt to reach upward with his right hand instantly reminded him that something in that arm was broken. He winced and gritted his teeth as he tried to find a position for it where the pain wasn’t overwhelming.

  Luckily the harness release was at the lower-left side of the seat and once he tripped it, he leaned forward somewhat and began to more clearly assess his situation and surroundings.

  Wiping off some of the condensed vapor his breath had deposited on the inside of the canopy allowed him to get a glimpse of the path the crippled plane had gouged across the snowy surface of the small valley and he shook his head in amazement at his own good fortune. “Alexsandr Kovpak, you have truly cheated death this time,” he told himself aloud.

  The recurring pain made it obvious his first task was to immobilize his arm. After long minutes of frustrating, tedious, one-handed effort involving holding pieces in his mouth and even gripping other parts between his knees and under his feet, he fashioned a reasonable sling out of parts cut from his harness. Breathing heavily from the effort and the pain he congratulated himself on having maintained his knife’s sharpness as he rested to avoid blacking out.

  His next concern was the cold and the even colder oncoming night. With the cockpit intact he had the advantage of not being exposed and while his flight suit was suitable for cold weather, he worried about falling asleep without additional protection – he rightfully feared he might not wake up.

  With some difficulty he opened the right-side door and the inrush of colder, fresh air seemed to help clear his head. He rose up enough to haul the cut-away parachute pack out from under him and with it on his lap he managed to open it, rewarding him with several square-meters of silk fabric that could be used as suitable bedding after he tediously cut off the rigging cords.

  As dark threatened to descend on his odd encampment he decided to do some nearby crash site exploration. Despite the pain in his arm he gingerly climbed out onto the wing and stood up unsteadily to look around. The effort made his head throb and he reached up, discovering dried blood on the left side of his face and neck. When he removed his radio headset he found the dented and cracked left earpiece had been the cause of the damage to his ear; he also heard something in the distance – flowing water.

  Looking through the dense growth engulfing the plane it dawned on him that this natural barrier may very well have saved him from eventually winding up in that water. While he had been wrestling the crippled plane into position to land, he hadn’t taken into consideration how little speed would be lost on the relatively smooth, icy surface. Now looking off in the direction he had come from at this higher perspective he realized the plane had skidded more than a kilometer.

  Assessing the overall results of his first crash-landing he marveled at how rugged the aircraft was. The vegetation had acted like a giant net and the sloping trailing edges of the wings had first scraped then plowed a path and finally dug into the more dense undergrowth and layer of packed snow. When he examined the tail section he quickly concluded the upward-pointing horizontal stabilizer’s abrupt impact with a tree had most-likely been the cause of his broken arm.

  Despite being relatively intact, he knew it retrieving it would require a monumental effort in this remote area, particularly without any nearby roads. The marvelous new plane was now relegated to being little more than his shelter for the coming night.

  - # -

  Kovpak woke several times during the hours of darkness, not only from the pain in his arm but the uncomfortable position. At some point he remembered one of the unusual aspects of their training – the introduction to the U.S. Army Air Corps pilot’s survival kit, so
mething called the ‘E-17’ which not only had chocolate and caramels but pain medication and an assortment of other useful items.

  With light from the Zippo he found his water flask and took four aspirin from the kit, hoping it would dull the pain radiating from his arm. Despite the acrid taste the pills left in his mouth they apparently worked well - the next time he awoke it was light outside.

  The heavy overcast was now lower and threatening – he could sense it might start snowing at any time but he decided to take the time to make a fire and heat water for some of the bullion from the kit. While it was heating in the metal flask, he ate one of the chocolate rations and took four more aspirin.

  After thoroughly assessing his situation he began mentally preparing himself for a potentially long hike, first in the direction of the river then along its general path in hopes of finding civilization. Three, perhaps four or five days, he told himself he could stay alive with his broken arm in the conditions he faced.

  He knew from his chart there were small hamlets in this part of the Urals, but he also knew the peasant farms had been collectivized and the results had brought about widespread unrest that had been harshly dealt with. He could only hope he would come across someone who didn’t harbor ill-will toward military officers.

  After finishing the broth he put out the small fire and gathered what little he had, arranged the parachute into a crude poncho and set off in the direction the small compass from the kit indicated was south. As he trudged through the snow in the open area he became more aware of the peculiarly shaped mountain ahead of him; it was not only odd - it was inexplicably familiar and from this vantage point it appeared to be the head of a small elephant projecting out of the rocky hill. He stopped for a moment to consult his chart, but could find nothing on it that matched the terrain ahead of or around him.

  Less than a kilometer further, he knew he was approaching the river again and was grateful that it didn’t block his path around the mountain. Fording a river in these kinds of temperatures was more than dangerous and he also knew the rivers in this part of the country were so twisted that if you expended the effort and crossed one, you might soon find you have to cross it yet again as it wound back the other direction.

  Another hour of rough going through the overgrowth adjacent to the river brought him to an area with fewer trees, and to the east he could see what looked like a farm field beyond it. He struck off in that direction and soon came to what was clearly a man-made space in another valley, separated from the one he landed in by what he called the “elephant.” From this side it looked like just another mountain. Turning southeasterly he realized he was coming to civilization but as he neared the tiny village he was both disappointed and alarmed; there was no smoke from any chimney and no tracks on what he thought of as the road leading to it.

  The tiny peasant hamlet had been deserted, and after spending a few minutes exploring two of the weather-battered houses in the small chance there might be something useful left behind, he came to the conclusion it had been abandoned for a very long time; his were the only tracks in and even the snow on the lone road to the southeast was untouched.

  With the pain rising again in his arm, he took more of the aspirin and sat down on the porch of what had been a church, contemplating what he should do next. Clearly, no one was coming to whatever town this was or had once been. He wondered if this was the way the entire countryside would be and the thought of walking for many kilometers only to find another collection of abandoned buildings was at once both worrisome and depressing.

  He rose and went inside the tiny church through the dilapidated door that dragged on the floor from the leaning of the wall. Surprisingly the roof had not leaked and the interior was simply layered with what must have been several years’ worth of dust that had infiltrated through the cracks in the wooden slats and window frames. The array of gaps let in almost as much light as the crude rippled glass they still held.

  He thought about resting then consulted his watch; time made the decision for him. There was only the one road out which meant there was something in that direction – or at least there had been at one time. He concluded he would go as far as he physically could before dark then make camp for the night.

  Knowing that finding dry wood for a fire in the open would be time consuming, Kovpak broke away a few loose segments of the old, brittle woodwork, stomped them into smaller kindling-sized pieces and put them in his pockets. When he stepped back out onto the porch he saw the first indications of actual snowfall – a few, tiny drifting flakes. He took a few minutes to re-fashion his parachute poncho and soon enough, heavy, wet flakes were coming down as he began hiking through the untouched white that blanketed everything.

  Only the sounds of his breathing, the steady crunch-swish-crunch of his boots in the snow and the faint tapping of the flakes against the parachute silk accompanied him as he reached the road and turned southeast. He managed to keep a steady pace despite the depth of the snow on the gradual uphill path and without pausing along the way he ate the last of the chocolate and caramels.

  Late in the afternoon, after what he estimated had been six or seven kilometers he spotted a crossroads ahead and hurried toward it. “Trucks!” he exclaimed aloud with excitement and relief as he got close enough to see the deep double-width grooves in the snow-pack. Not recent – maybe not even today but definitely vehicles, he told himself as his mood immediately lifted.

  Instead of going further up into the mountainous terrain, he set out southwesterly on the near-level but curving road. The going was easier in one of the tracks and from time to time he’d lift the now damp parachute off his head and stop, holding his breath in hopes of hearing the sound of a motor somewhere in the distance.

  He pushed himself for well over an hour in hopes that he might be found and at an almost right-angle bend in the road he finally paused to catch his breath, sensing from the tiny, sparkling points of light drifting through his eyes that he may have over-exerted himself. He scanned the horizon for any telltale signs of civilization then finished his flask of water and fumbled with getting it back into his pocket.

  The driver of the small truck had his foot off the gas and entered the familiar, abrupt corner at a safe speed but he could not believe his eyes when he saw something in the road – something off-white and almost shapeless that didn’t belong there. In panic, he slammed on the brakes and tried to veer off, but the momentum and the firm, frozen tracks guided the sliding vehicle directly into the unsuspecting and unaware object.

  - # -

  Kovpak drifted up out of unconsciousness and thought he heard several voices, including one of a woman, but before he could make any sensible words come out of his mouth he felt something being injected into his left arm. Unable to focus, all he could see was a source of bright light above him but it began to fade as whatever he had been given pulled him back under.

  - # -

  In his Kremlin office, General Krylov paced anxiously, waiting for the phone to ring again, this time with an explanation that reflected something more than uncertainty on the whereabouts of Major Kovpak.

  The first report of the pilot’s likely whereabouts had come five days after the plane failed to reach Aqtobe. The infirmary commander at Orsk had taken seriously Kovpak’s barely understandable order to notify only General Krylov of his situation. The highly unusual phone call to the General’s command office in the Kremlin had taken almost a day to get through and during that time Kovpak’s doctors had ordered him to be sent via train to the facilities at Chkalov, some 200 kilometers to the west.

  And now, yet another day had passed. Much to the General’s frustration and despite having learned Kovpak was stabilized and expected to recover, no one at Chkalov seemed to know if he had arrived there or not. Krylov had given the young officer one hour to personally check every patient in the hospital and report back to him.

  There were six minutes to spare when the phone rang and he yanked the earpiece from the
cradle. “This is Krylov!” he announced firmly.

  After the operator made the connection, the concerned voice at the other end answered the General’s first question – he assured him there was no Major Kovpak in the hospital. He also reported that no patients had been brought in by train in the last two days. However, they had been notified of four patients coming from Orsk but had no names because the patient’s transfer orders were being carried by the medical attendant accompanying them. To the best of his knowledge the Major was still on the train and he offered to notify Krylov as soon as he was received.

  “Do that, Captain,” Krylov ordered. “No matter the time.”

  The next call went to his adjutant to have a plane readied to take him to Chkalov on two hour’s notice then he walked out and strode in the direction of General Leonov’s offices, feeling far more satisfied than he had in several days. At least Kovpak is alive. At least now we can find the plane, he thought.

  - # -

  Kovpak gradually became more aware of his surroundings as the gentle sensations of motion no longer seemed to lull him back to sleep. A blurry image of an older man above him formed and he heard words of reassurance: “You are doing much better, Comrade Major.”

  He managed to force the words out from his dry mouth. “Where am I?”

  “We are taking you to Chkalov, Major.”

  Kovpak could hear the familiar noises of the interior of a slowly-moving train car as he conducted his own personal physical inventory while trying to make his eyes focus. His toes and feet responded, relieving him of the fear of being paralyzed but there were flashes of pain as he attempted to assess the damage to his arms and hands by moving them. There was a profoundly deep ache at his left hip and he learned quickly that taking a deep breath was a terrible idea. But even with the pain the most disconcerting thing was he could not remember what had put him in this situation. “Water,” was all he could manage next and moments later a cup was placed at his lips and he began trying to sip as if his life would end without it.