Iron Dogs and Caesar's Ruby

by Dave R. Mortensen

  “Careful,” the voice said. “You have been under sedation for some time. The doctors operated on you. Please, do not try to move.”

  After licking his roughened lips to distribute the tiny amounts of water still on his tongue he managed to ask, “How did I get here?”

  “We had hoped you could tell us where you came from.”

  He had to think for a moment. “I am a pilot,” he said with some conviction.

  “Yes, we know,” the medic said. “Were you in a crash?”

  Kovpak was able to nod slightly and asked for more water. After swallowing again he looked at the man and said, “I ... I was flying ... yesterday, perhaps the day before—”

  The medic interrupted him. “Comrade Major, you have been in the infirmary for four days.”

  The man on the stretcher bed across from him spoke. “They brought you to Orsk Tuesday afternoon, Comrade. I was taken in at the same time.”

  Tuesday? Kovpak was becoming alarmed about not being able to remember what had happened. He turned his head to the left to see who had spoken. “Orsk?” he asked the younger man.

  The medic answered, “You had been badly injured. Someone found you and took you to an old man, a physician ... his sons took you to Orsk.”

  “What day is this?” Kovpak asked in alarm.

  “Careful,” the medic said. “Try to remain calm. Today is Saturday, the third of October.”

  He suddenly remembered something important. But – four days ago? “Comrade, did, did they get word to General Krylov ... I asked that he be notified.”

  The man nodded reassuringly. “I believe a call was placed, yes. It takes time.”

  Kovpak relaxed somewhat as he realized he could now recall the early parts of the mission then the alarm rose; But what happened? Why can’t I ... what’s wrong with me? “When do we arrive in Chkalov?” he finally asked.

  “By morning,” the medic answered and looked at his watch. “Three, perhaps four hours. There have been interruptions.”

  Kovpak blinked then sighed in understanding and the medic said dryly, “We have not yet won the war, Comrade Major.”

  He found he was able to raise his head slightly and looked around, immediately discovering why he couldn’t move – he was strapped to the stretcher. “Comrade,” he asked the medic seriously, “how badly am I injured?”

  “Do not be alarmed by the bindings ... you have been unconscious and with the train moving we cannot risk injuring you.” He turned and picked up a clipboard. “You have a skull fracture, a broken rib, a broken forearm and a sprain of your left knee. They believe you have a cracked pelvis. That must have been a frightful crash.”

  Kovpak realized he couldn’t answer accurately and in obvious confusion he simply said, “It must have been.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Near Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

  In answer to Alex Calder’s question about how the Suburban got from Long Island to Houston Kirkland asked, “Are you familiar with a Transall?”

  Alex Calder’s memory gears began whirring. A Transall? His first notion was some kind of auto-transport rig, but that would have taken more time than driving the Suburban itself. “I give up,” he said then pointed. “Take a right at the stop sign.”

  “Picture a smaller twin version of a Hercules.”

  Calder looked at him with an odd mixture of surprise and confusion and Kirkland explained how the majority of the assignments he undertook for clients were sometimes best served with the big ex-military cargo plane. “It’s a two hundred and sixty knot office and garage that can land and takeoff almost anywhere.”

  While he was a recognized expert in historically-significant artwork and jewelry, Kirkland’s clientele called on him for any number of issues, often with highly-unusual logistical requirements. In addition to confidentiality for the client, an engagement could demand the expertise of other highly-specialized experts he engaged as affiliates and consultants. Sometimes, the item being evaluated had to be taken to places where tests could be conducted and observations made by an authority. In other situations a team of experts might have to travel to a remote location with a substantial amount of support equipment – and there were times where that support equipment included armament.

  In certain instances where expanded security became the paramount issue, Kirkland would draw from a select cadre of professionals, including teams of combat-experienced men who were ultimately dependable – in part because they sought the reputation accumulated by repeat assignments for him as much as the money. But those situations were rare; guile, technology, attention to detail in crafting diversions and having willing friends in the right places had proven extremely effective.

  In one of the specialized fields the expert simply did not travel; if one wanted her opinion, the instruments in question—including, over the years, a harpsichord and two grand pianos—had to be taken to her estate in Austria then allowed to gradually acclimate for weeks before she would begin her analysis. Another affiliate had a huge facility specifically for x-raying large objects, including vehicles and statuary. Then there were the occasions where a typical charter aircraft would attract too much attention from regulators or authorities.

  “We sometimes do recoveries and deliveries,” Kirkland advised matter-of-factly without inviting further questioning.

  Recoveries? Calder wondered but didn’t ask. Knowing little about the man’s business operations he wondered, what does ‘we’ mean?

  “Perhaps the best way to explain what we do in those situations is to say there are just some things the common carriers won’t carry,” Kirkland said then quickly added, “usually because they can’t get insurance coverage.” He deliberately avoided mentioning having to go into and out of places others wouldn’t and the lengths he sometimes went to meet his client’s objectives.

  Calder nodded in growing understanding as he thought, I was looking for an appraiser ... Commoner sent me Indiana Jones.

  “I also have some clients who are more security conscious than others ... and there are some who simply don’t trust freight companies and customs brokers.” He also left out the fact that there were ways to completely avoid customs if one had the properly-equipped aircraft, cover story and know-how.

  Calder nodded in agreement. “Over the years I’ve had some experience trying to decide who to trust.”

  Kirkland nodded as he said, “In your business I would imagine you have.”

  A slight chuckle preceded a more thorough explanation of how the fraud and tax problems his brother-in-law faced had dogged the family.

  A few of the people who decided to participate in Roger Burnett’s so-called ‘wealth protection’ and ‘prosperity’ programs were more than happy to not only hide assets and money in a variety of off-shore entities, they were even willing to try and expand on their rapid success. One of them became involved in laundering money through his supposedly impenetrable network of private trusts and off-shore banks and sham businesses. Some portion of that money was eventually traced to a Central American drug cartel and when the Federal seizures went into effect, millions of dollars of tainted drug money suddenly became assets of the U.S. Government.

  While the trials for Burnett and his accomplices ground their way through the Federal criminal court system, the drug gang had operatives shadowing a number of people connected with the cases, including the Calder family. If that wasn’t unnerving enough, there were rumors and even conjecture in the news that Catherine Burnett must have known more about her husband’s scam-funded empire than she actually did, and the in-law connection to the Calders only helped fuel the intrigue.

  Fortunately, the family had a large and diverse group of friends, including some in law enforcement. More than once a marked car was visible within a city block of their personal vehicles as they went about their normal routines. At seemingly random times there would be a Texas Ranger seen at the doors of Calder’s offices or the museum. Sometimes county sheriff’
s cars came and went from the ranch property without any apparent reason.

  Moments after Catherine’s final court testimony, the U.S. Marshall’s service escorted her and Elanore to a private airfield where they boarded a chartered jet that took them to a friend’s property in Colorado – one in a ski-resort town with a Sheriff’s department adept at protecting the privacy of the wealthy and celebrity residents and their guests.

  The Federal and local law enforcement agencies in Texas eventually made it uncomfortable enough for the trafficker’s henchmen that they faded out of the picture. Finally, with Burnett behind bars in Oklahoma and all the assets the justice department could find recovered from the labyrinth he had constructed, the cartel’s interest in Catherine and the Calders waned rapidly.

  After listening to the story Kirkland suggested, “You’ve seen your share of exigent circumstances.”

  “You’re right – it’s why I have the permit for this,” he said patting the holster then pointed forward. “About a mile ahead, this will veer right and about half a mile after, look for a gap ... there’s a pair of stone pillars between some trees on the left.”

  With looming security issues that were sure to arise in this situation, Kirkland thought for a few moments then asked pointedly, “No threats since then?”

  “Not a peep,” Calder answered then pointed to the left of the road. “This is it,” he said as they approached the turn-off to the ranch gates.

  - # -

  In a sedan less than a mile south of the ranch entrance, the driver pulled to the side of the road and placed a call on his cell phone. When Pavel Silayev answered the driver said, “It’s the black Suburban,” then read off the license number. “Yes ... They’re together.”

  Sitting on a stool in a restaurant’s bar, Pavel Silayev smiled at the confirmation of his hunch as he wrote the number down on a napkin. The professor has important friends.

  CHAPTER 13

  Chkalov, USSR, October, 1942

  Senior Lieutenant Anton Nuryev was anxious to try one of the wheel chairs that seemed to offer at least some modicum of mobility. His broken ankles were still in casts and only minimally painful, but despite his pleas, the doctor and nurses insisted on another week before they would allow him that much freedom from the bed.

  Taller than any other officer in his unit or in the Chkalov hospital, at 190 centimeters in height and weighing eighty kilograms, Nuryev was a physically imposing presence when on his feet, but languishing in the confines of a hospital bed he felt small and powerless, as if the war and his life were slipping away out of his reach.

  His unit and several others had been ordered to thwart the Nazi’s determined aerial surveillance of the Baku area on the western shore of the Caspian Sea in a desperate attempt to hamper attainment of Hitler’s ultimate objective – the capture of the Caucuses, the world’s most productive oil region. Preventing reconnaissance had been deemed crucial to the defense strategy and that meant planes and pilots were expendable.

  A mid-air collision between his MiG-3 and an unseen enemy plane tore off most of one wing but he was somehow able to bail out. Unfortunately, some part of the spinning and falling wreckage collided with his feet at very high speed and he landed in the water with two broken ankles. Unable to use his legs to kick in the frigid and rough waters, he swam on his back in the direction of the shore for nearly fifteen minutes before a fishing vessel found him and pulled him from the water.

  After being treated near Baku, he was shipped across the Caspian to Aqtau and then by various rail connections to Chkalov, but now, over a month after his nearly fatal flight, he was becoming more than just impatient with his progress – he was also bored and anxious to get back into the fight.

  When word quickly spread around the crowded barracks-like ward that an almost legendary fighter pilot had arrived for long-term recuperation, Nuryev’s first thought was that fate had handed him a learning opportunity.

  Among the fifty-or-so men with various physical injuries on the ward, a handful were pilots and it was not long before Kovpak was among them, sharing stories and of course, swapping rumors. Given he was the highest-ranking officer and the most recent arrival, it was assumed he would know more about what might be going on in various parts of the front, but to their disappointment he explained he had until very recently been in England evaluating new aircraft.

  Despite that story, he took the opportunity to try and buoy the spirits of the men, engaging them with accounts of victories he knew of and some he had only heard of, mixed among warnings of the dangers of listening to rumors that might only serve to weaken their resolve.

  To their further surprise, Kovpak was visited little more than a day after his arrival by none other than General Krylov. Not only was it very unusual for a senior officer to take the time away from command duties to visit one of his junior officers, it was unheard of that a General would come all the way from Moscow and spend the better part of a day in private consultation with one.

  When Kovpak was rolled into the ward after his meeting with Krylov, he was soon inundated with questions, few of which he could answer; what he could do for them was share a gift he had received and he showed them one of the bottles of fine vodka the General had smuggled into him. After their evening meal a small, quiet gathering ensued in the vicinity of Kovpak’s bed.

  As they talked, Kovpak revealed more about the plane he had been evaluating while leaving out any hint of the purpose of the mission he had undertaken. He mentioned to them that if their units were assigned the new aircraft he would probably be seeing them in the near future, as his new assignment and new rank of Podpolkovnik (Lt. Colonel) meant he was to oversee the training of pilots in the Airacobra. He also warned them that only determined pilots would be able to master the complexities of the planes they would see in their future. It would take some time to become effective in them but once they did, with the proper adherence to operating rules and tactics they were formidable weapons.

  Just days before Nuryev was scheduled to be returned to a non-flying staff position to finish his recovery, Kovpak took the younger pilot aside and they began talking about the future. Even thought he had already arranged for the Lieutenant’s transfer to his new training command he asked Nuryev if he would be interested.

  Unable to conceal his excitement, Nuryev said almost too loudly, “Of course, Comrade Colonel.”

  “Then we have another cause for a celebration,” Kovpak announced with a smile as he brought out another bottle of the General’s vodka and two cups. “Your orders will arrive any day ... you will probably be there before me.”

  Lubricated by good cheer and vodka, their conversation ranged from their education and families then back into their military experiences, in particular with Kovpak detailing more about training in England with the Airacobra.

  As he explained some of the events leading up to the end of his last flight, he realized more of the missing pieces had been coming back – but not always in the right sequence. Some came with absurdly confusing and fleeting images.

  Scowling in confusion he said, “It seems I did not do what I had been told was the best thing in the event of the propeller overrun.” After a moment he sipped the vodka then explained in some detail what he had learned in England about the complex prop and the procedures for it. He finally confided in Nuryev what the experienced British and American pilots’ advice had been: Bail out!

  During his stay in the hospital Kovpak had often reasoned a bailout might have put him in the condition he found himself in. In the first place, as Nuryev had learned with his broken ankles, the impact in the air with a crippled aircraft while getting out of it can and will do serious damage. Then there was the fact that the infirmary personnel at Orsk had dutifully packed and sent along all of his belongings – and among them had been his parachute.

  But now he began to recall some of the procedures he undertook while still well over a thousand meters in the air – going by the book. With mountin
g excitement he said, “I think the engine seized ... I ... I was looking for somewhere to land. I remember ... I remember now,” he said struggling with the thoughts racing around in his head. “A flat area ... on the snow, and I kept the speed up by diving then turned once then I had no choice and ... I must have slid and gone around and around. Yes! It went straight back into something. I could see where I had come from ... but I had hit my head ... I ... I cannot ... I cannot remember.”

  Nuryev knew Kovpak’s memory of events between the time he was flying and waking up in the train car on the way to Chkalov was faulty, so he was surprised at some of what he was now hearing in Kovpak’s in halting, even confused sentences.

  “They must have found you in the plane,” Nuryev said. “That’s why you don’t remember. You hit your head when you landed, Colonel.”

  Kovpak nodded but was frustrated that enormous gaps in his memory remained.

  “Where did you land?” Nuryev asked.

  The question brought with it an odd vision and the thought was so strange he decided it would be embarrassing to say anything about it. I was standing in the snow and I saw an elephant. “I really don’t know,” he finally said while concentrating. “But I know I was in the snow ... I was walking in the snow.”

  Nuryev shook his head in bewilderment. “Wait! You said walking ... walking in the snow? How could you be walking?”

  Staring at his legs in the chair and remembering the pain from the slow-healing injuries Kovpak finally said, “I must have dreamt it ... but—” he suddenly had an idea and rose to his feet and limped to his bed then reached below it and dragged out the large canvas bag his gear had been put in.