Iron Dogs and Caesar's Ruby

by Dave R. Mortensen

  Despite the astonishing amount of money he had just been given a worried look appeared on the young man’s face. “You know how to care for them?”

  Recognizing how important such things were to the boy and his family Nuryev said, “All of my life, Comrade. I was a cavalry officer. Before I went to school I cared for horses. They will be well treated.”

  The young man looked at the officer then fiddled nervously with his hat. “Thank you, Comrade. Thank you very much. My father and I will be here in the morning, at dawn ... without fail.”

  “Something else, Dimitri ... do you have apples and carrots for them?”

  Yakolevich opened his mouth and didn’t quite know what to say; such luxuries were likely not something that would be given to horses under their present circumstances.

  “Here,” Nuryev said as he stepped over to a chair where his burlap sack rested. “It will be an early start. Take these,” he said, reaching in and pulling out several large carrots and four slightly aging apples.

  The young man’s eyes widened and when the officer handed them to him he quickly stuffed them into his coat pockets.

  “I trust you will share half of them with the horses,” he cautioned knowingly. “And do not feed them by hand ... cut them up ... I do not want them to be biting.”

  Stuttering from surprise as if his thoughts had been read Yakolevich responded, “Y-yes, Comrade. Of course.”

  “Good night,” Nuryev said and closed the door.

  - # -

  With a thin line of light beginning to appear above the mountains to the east and moonlight blanketing the snowy countryside, Nuryev finished loading the pack horse with his gear and supplies.

  The father of the younger man held the reins of the two large animals as their breath formed large but quickly dissipating clouds around his head.

  Nuryev didn’t pause in his final adjusting of the tack as he asked, “Comrade ... tell me, do you know anyone from Churaevo?”

  The coarse, stocky man with a permanent scowl to match his demeanor shook his head. “No, no, not for many years.”

  Nuryev stopped what he was doing, removed his gloves and handed the man the rest of the money he had promised. “I make it to be twenty-five kilometers from here. How long a ride would you say?”

  The son was quicker to respond. “On these, Comrade, you should be able to get there before nightfall,” he said with some pride.

  Nuryev looked the horse over again and had to agree. “I believe you are right,” he said as he climbed up. “I should return in three days.” He reached down and took the reins of the other horse from the old man and said, “Good day, Comrades,” then nudged the horse with his heels and started off.

  As they turned away the father said quietly, “He does not appear to be a miner.”

  “Mining engineer, Papa,” the son corrected. “A scientist.”

  The old man shook his head slightly and shrugged as he handled the money he had been given. “It is not our concern ... unless he fails to bring them back.”

  - # -

  The going was easy and steady enough that Nuryev arrived in the deserted village of Churaevo just before sunset. He rode directly to the small church and once inside he soon found the damage to one of the window sills Kovpak had described making as well as the painting on the ceiling. Never having any exposure to a religious faith he wondered what and who it was that was so important that he needed to be depicted on the dome. The idea that someone would actually depict their God as a man in a painting seemed incredibly pretentious. How could they know what he looked like? he asked himself.

  After exploring further he decided to stay the night in the shelter of the dilapidated building rather than camping out in the open. Stepping back outdoors, he unloaded some of his gear and began tending the horses with his mind focused on the details of survival. He was constantly aware of the fact that he was utterly alone in an area few, if any people ventured into. That meant doing everything carefully and correctly just as if he were on a complex flying mission. A man without his wits about him could easily make a mistake that could cost him his life, and particularly now, he had much to live for.

  Later, after eating his simple meal of bread and sausage he remembered the letter Helena had given him in Moscow – an intriguing surprise because she insisted he not open it until he was on his way.

  She had written it even before she knew he was coming to Moscow but hadn’t posted it and now, removing it from his coat and opening it carefully, his heart stirred and thoughts of her seemed to push all else from his mind.

  Compared to some of her letters it was brief, just three pages in a small but legible hand that was easily read even in the dim candlelight. As was her style, from the first sentence she refused to dwell on gossip or the misery of day-to-day existence. Instead, much of her writing focused on small, positive things in the otherwise dreary world of life as a citizen of Moscow, including seeing the circus for the first time since the end of the war.

  Reading it made him smile broadly and he forced himself to stop after the first page to save the rest for the coming nights alone.

  - # -

  As the sky began the transformation from deep to light blue, Nuryev finished his cold breakfast, tended to the team then packed up and rode out in the direction of the Sakmara River.

  The faint sounds of flowing water became more evident as he rode and he turned to parallel the river’s twisting path, moving generally northwest in search of Kovpak’s elephantine mountain.

  He was now venturing into what had become an uninhabited wilderness sometime in the last decade. In places he could see remnants of wooden fencing sticking up through the dead overgrowth and snow and could make out the boundaries of what might have been cultivated fields or perhaps pasture. Indeed, nature had taken over completely and no sign of more recent human activity was anywhere to be found; the only tracks in the snow were those of animals.

  After working his way through a tree-cluttered, narrow gap between a steep hill on his right and the banks of the river to his left he came to tiny clearing that led to a much larger valley, one with a broad, gently sloping expanse stretching ahead for over three kilometers. A few hundred meters into the open space he stopped and looked back, suddenly surprised to see the image Kovpak had described and he had seen from the air. He laughed and excitedly said aloud into the wilderness, “Your little elephant lives, General!”

  He took out his binoculars and scanned the perimeter nearest the river then moved further into the center of the small valley. Trying to imagine the view a pilot in trouble would have had in desperately trying to put an aircraft down in the space available, he decided to concentrate his search on a location that would have been near the end of the longer diagonal, corner-to-corner landing.

  As he rode toward the heavy overgrowth sprawling out from the base of a long grove of trees, an unnatural shape started becoming apparent. The closer he got the more defined it became and while completely concealed from above, at ground level from a hundred meters away he could clearly detect the shape of an aircraft tangled among years of forest growth.

  Arriving at the site and dismounting, he was utterly amazed at how intact the plane was – and the fact that only one of the propeller blades was bent back from impact confirmed the theory of the prop being frozen in position.

  Although the tail assembly was clearly wrecked from the impact into the trees, no major components of the empennage had been torn away. The paint was faded but it still clung to the aluminum skin and even the canopy appeared transparent. After examining it more closely he realized there were no tell-tale signs of skin warping from a bent airframe.

  A week or so in the right facility would have this back in the air, he realized based on his experience with aircraft wreckage and resourceful repair crews.

  With the sun now high in the sky he looked up, squinting at the large trees and heavy limbs and found several things he was hoping would have been there – plenty
of places to affix his equipment.

  After unloading the horses he rigged a block and tackle to a junction of a large limb and the trunk of a tree above the starboard wing and another to the base of a nearby tree. Harnessing the team to a length of heavy rope he surveyed the resulting mechanism carefully – considering again the risks of being alone without any hope of assistance if something went wrong.

  When the big horses pulled and he urged them forward, the aircraft groaned as the wing tip rose several centimeters. The ratchet in the lower pulley locked in and with repeated urging the team had the wingtip almost a meter above the tangle of accumulated and frozen detritus.

  Before crawling into the decaying mess below the plane’s wing he took two very large carrots from his supplies, cut them up and rewarded the team for their effort by putting the pieces on the snowy ground in front of them. As the horses devoured their reward, he patted and congratulated them. “Dimitri, you are indeed a man of your word,” he said honestly among the snorts from the team.

  He slung a large piece of canvas under the wing and crawled into the space then began opening the gun compartment, not knowing what he might find. “Well, General ... now we find out,” he whispered.

  What he next saw was a precisely-fitted wooden crate held in position by leather straps not unlike belts. Removing it was simple enough and as he examined the restraints he made the decision to remove those as well.

  With the crate removed, he closed the compartment door and turned the fasteners to the locking positions. The armament bay no longer contained any trace of having had anything in it.

  After lowering the starboard wing and repeating the entire process for the port side, he tended to the horses in preparation for camping at the crash location for the night. Their reward this time was apple chunks and they had become more than comfortable with him, so much so they didn’t even react as he set the soft hobbles.

  In the light from his campfire he pried open the crates with his knife, finding two brass cylinders in each one that looked oddly like artillery casings that had been cut to length and then sealed by brazing a cap on each end. The thought came to him that they might contain something dangerous and he decided not to shake them, then he scoffed at his concern; whatever was inside had been rugged enough to have survived the crash and was obviously packed to prevent damage – or discharge.

  To his disappointment, nothing inside moved or made a sound no matter how vigorously he shook the cylinders; tapping along their length with the handle of his knife gave him the distinct impression they were packed firmly.

  Whatever is in them is not going to be revealed until I get back to Berlin and find a way to cut them open, he concluded with some trepidation.

  He added the wood of the crates to his fire and took the time to bury the extracted nails some twenty meters away, then after climbing up on the plane’s wing and examining the cockpit again he decide there was nothing more to learn and he concentrated on preparing something to eat.

  After his supper, with only the crackle of the small fire and the occasional sounds from the horses, Nuryev bedded down for the night, finally reading the next page of his letter from Helena before falling into a deep sleep.

  - # -

  In the morning light Nuryev worked diligently to conceal what had been done at the crash site, knowing full well that only time would eradicate all the evidence of someone, as well as two horses, having been there. But without discerning how he had managed to lift the wings, even an astute crash examiner would have to conclude the site might have simply been visited by two people, perhaps hunters on horseback.

  A full day earlier than expected he arrived back at the inn in Kuvandyk, but instead of staying the night and in spite of the innkeeper’s warning of the risks of getting lost in the dark he decided to return to the officer’s quarters at Orsk.

  The long drive proved harrowing, not because of being unable to find his way, but due to encounters with convoys of large trucks that seemed not to care about smaller oncoming vehicles on the rolling and twisting roads.

  He finally arrived at the base motor pool at midnight and after securing quarters, despite the physical exertion of the previous days, finding his way to sleep was difficult. What might be in the cylinders was more than just an intriguing mystery and as he read the last page of the letter from Helena his heart kept reminding him his now possibly uncertain future was going to include a wife.

  - # -

  It was near dark in Berlin when Nuryev taxied the General’s plane toward the designated hangar and he could see the staff car parked facing outward just inside the open door. As the plane came to a stop Kovpak stepped out of the car and strode out to greet his adjutant formally.

  After his gear was stored in the trunk of the staff car, Kovpak himself drove through the security gate then Nuryev began to explain the mission, describing in some detail the abandoned town and what he had done at the crash site to conceal the removal of the cargo.

  “Without a way to lift them they will be forced to dig into the dirt and cut through the roots ... I did not disturb any—”

  Kovpak couldn’t entirely conceal his frustration and he asked insistently, “Anton, what was there?”

  Nuryev realized he had bypassed explaining the most important part of the whole mission. “Containers. Brass cylinders – four of them,” he began then gestured with his hands outstretched. “I would say ten centimeters in diameter, sixty perhaps seventy or so in length ... with the caps brazed in place.”

  Kovpak scowled in thought then commented, “Brass cylinders.”

  Nuryev nodded. “As if they were cut from artillery shells. And there is something packed firmly inside.”

  The senior officer thought for a few moments and despite his concern that what was in them might be dangerous in multiple ways he said seriously, “We have to find a way to open them.”

  “I believe we have one.”

  Kovpak didn’t glance away from driving but he was clearly unaware of his junior officer’s instant solution. “We do?”

  “In the motor pool garage – they have a machine shop. I saw a lathe. That means there have to be any number of machinist’s files.”

  The General nodded quickly. “We will go there first.”

  When they neared their office building Kovpak stopped the car, got out and deflated one of the rear tires enough to make it appear to be going flat. As they arrived at the garage the General exited and pointed out the problem with some annoyance and the two men on duty were soon engaged in changing the tire while Nuryev casually disappeared into the machine shop and slipped two large files into his flight jacket.

  An hour later they were tediously cutting into one of the brass tubes in the kitchen of Kovpak’s new quarters, a small and surprisingly still well-furnished two-story house that had at one time belonged to a Jewish family that had been displaced by a Wehrmacht officer.

  With the first tube finally cut open, Kovpak began to pull at the densely-packed wood shavings in it and the room became infused with the aroma of cedar.

  The two men looked at each other with a combination of shared dread and resolve; there was no knowing what forces they might have set in motion.

  The first object retrieved was a small wooden box and Kovpak decided to keep emptying the tube before examining it. Other small boxes came out as he tapped the end of the tube with the heel of his hand then banged it lightly against the table, scattering cedar shavings and sawdust across the surface with some spilling onto the floor. He looked into the end and assured himself it was empty then they sat at the table and examined the six identical boxes more closely.

  Nuryev picked one up and began examining it closely, trying to determine how it was supposed to be opened. “A tiny crate,” he offered and noted the lid was held in place with nothing more than four small brass brads. Using his knife he pried them out then set the box down gently between them on the table; after they looked at each other for a few breathless secon
ds, the General nodded.

  Nuryev pried the tight-fitting lid off, exposing yet more cedar shavings that protected a small, gray velvet drawstring bag. Unwilling to go further, he pushed the open box toward the General and they looked at each other with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.

  Kovpak took a deep breath and held it as he pulled the small bag out, spilling even more shavings on the table’s surface. Their eyes were fixed on it as he fumbled with the tied strings, his big digits finally working open the bag, allowing him to look down into it. He turned the bag upside down and the object rolled into his outstretched palm.

  Neither of them could find words. For a long time they sat, eyes wide and fixed on the object. Kovpak finally started looking at the other boxes and slid one to Nuryev then set the bag down and placed the fabulous piece on it.

  With all six boxes open and their stunning, glittering contents on his small kitchen table, Kovpak’s mind was whirling with what this almost dream-like discovery might mean. “I do not understand,” he said quietly, utterly mystified and in no small way, genuinely fearful.

  Like almost every Soviet citizen, Nuryev had no rational idea what was on the table in front of him and could only shake his head in bewilderment. “What are these?”

  Kovpak’s mind quickly connected them to the events around the secret mission. “We took these from Leningrad—”

  “From Leningrad? Why?”

  “To Tehran,” Kovpak continued, seemingly ignoring the question.

  “But why? Why would you have taken this to Tehran? What could any of this mean to Iran?”

  The General looked at him, blinking several times but had no immediate answer.

  After several moments Nuryev came to a conclusion and offered a theory. “This ... then this was to be a, a, trade, a payment?”

  Kovpak kept looking at the pieces as he considered what he remembered of the mission. After a long, troubling silence he said, “We were sworn to secrecy ... but, but this ... these, Anton ... I cannot help but believe Comrade Stalin was doing this for some purpose. Perhaps his own purposes.”