Siberius (2 page)

Nick stopped at the corner of the building.
The Andrews Sisters
, he thought
. Wonder how old they are?
He peeked around the corner with the face of Betty Andrews in his head.

Her image disappeared, replaced by the face of the tall officer staring directly at him..

Nick recognized the insignia on his sleeve as that of a Russian colonel. The officer had a stern, chiseled countenance and a pallid complexion. His eyes were small, his eyebrows thick and his jaw large and tight. “
Dóbry vyéchyir,
” he said staring right into the American’s eyes. Nick spoke fluent Russian, but the colonel’s words were not what he expected.

The tall man had bid him
good evening
.

Nick ducked as the officer swung a fist and missed, an action quickly followed by a yelp as clenched fist met frozen cinderblock. The colonel grasped his throbbing hand while Nick hit the snow and rolled. In an instant, Nick was up and running toward the fence, while the colonel struggled to pull his whistle from his coat pocket. As Nick neared the steel chain link, he was greeted with the sound of the Russian colonel’s whistle awaking the Siberian night. In seconds, the installation came to life.

Reaching the perimeter fence, Nick dove through the hole he’d cut earlier. Right behind him, the colonel and a handful of soldiers closed in on his position. Jagged wires snagged Nick’s coat, but he forced his body through, clearing the fence just as they reached him. One of the soldiers slipped through the opening, but Nick delivered a swift kick to the man’s temple, knocking him unconscious. The soldier’s body now blocked the exit.

Gasping for breath in the cold sub-Arctic air, Nick ran to the tree line and took cover behind a fallen spruce. Propped against it were a haversack and a walking stick—he had hiked in, but there was no chance of hiking out now. He surveyed his surroundings. A single road stretched from the compound down into a valley. Surrounding him on every side was the
taiga,
the endless evergreen Siberian forest.

White light lit up the night. Armed soldiers, still dressing in mid-run, made their way toward the gate. With the area illuminated, Nick surveyed the camp again. Opposite his position and on the other side of the compound was the installation’s airstrip. Parked at one end were three airplanes powdered with snow, their noses pitched to the sky. Two were in poor condition, either ravaged for parts or not yet assembled. But the other, a MiG-3, looked to be in good shape.

Good enough to fly, in fact.

Clutching a German luger, the colonel was the first through the gate. He waved the soldiers on and they spread out before the tree line, flanking their quarry’s position and closing off any escape deeper into the forest. The colonel gestured to the other soldiers, ordering a contingent to flush the spy from his hide. The circle of soldiers moved in.

A sudden and loud mechanical cough broke the darkness and forced the soldier’s attention. Turning toward the airstrip, they watched a thick plume of black smoke shoot from the MiG-3’s exhaust. Taking a few steps toward the plane, the stunned colonel witnessed the canopy close and the plane taxi out onto the runway.

The MiG rolled past the wrecked bomber, its wheels crunching over shallow snow cover. Despite never having flown a Russian ship before, Nick felt confident enough. He had trained with the Allied forces in Britain during and after the war, and most of his flying hours had been in the British Hawker Tempest. All airplanes shared common design traits to an extent, and the physics of flying were constant. Checking the gauges, he found everything read normal, and his stomach fluttered when he saw the fuel gauge: a full tank. He could reach Bratsk with that much fuel. Hell, he might even make it to China.

In quick succession, a splattering of bullets ricocheted off the canopy, and Nick ducked instinctively. Emerging from the trees and blasting away came the installation’s contingent of two dozen Red Army soldiers. Bullets ripped into the fuselage, shredding the radio antenna and pockmarking the starboard wing and tail plane.

Nick hunkered down and throttled up. Fuselage and pilot vibrated as the 1500 horsepower engine spun the propeller in a blurred circle. “Not as nice as the Hawker,” he whispered to himself. The MiG taxied past firing soldiers and one infuriated colonel. Gaining speed, its tires crunched like twisted balloons against snow. Ahead, Nick saw darkness and the silhouette of black evergreens on either side.

At full throttle, the engine strained, the variable-pitch aluminum prop sliced through the winter night. In less than 10 seconds the plane had reached 120 knots and with it soared the spirits of one Nicholas Somerset.

Want to go right back where I belong,

Way down south in Birmingham,

I mean south in Alabam,

An old place where people go,

To dance the night away!

The soldiers chased after the plane but to their colonel’s astonishment, it was too late. Yanking the rifle from one man’s hands, the Russian officer let loose a final barrage. It did no good.

The colonel’s young second-in-command watched the plane take off and disappear into the night. He turned to see his superior running his way. He at once tensed up.

“Who was he, Colonel Barkov?” the young captain said, but Aleksei Barkov didn’t answer. Instead, he looked to the tire tracks bisecting the runway. Squatting, the colonel touched a line of discolored snow between the tracks, then gazed out into the blackness.

“
Captain Radchek,” the colonel said peering into the impenetrable darkness. “We have work to do tonight.”

Maksim Radchek thought he saw a brief moment of delight in the colonel’s stony face. Barkov wiped his hand on his coat and then spun around and headed back to the gate. Captain Radchek bent over, scooped up some of the discolored snow, and sniffed it.

Fuel.

A thin trail stretched along the runway, then stopped where the plane’s tire tracks ended. The young second-in-command knew what it meant for himself, the colonel and the entire squad of soldiers stationed at Yenisey Radar Installation Number One.

None of them would be sleeping tonight.

2

              Colonel Barkov and Captain Radchek entered the main building through the breezeway connecting it and the barracks. The colonel’s pace was swift and deliberate, and Radchek maintained a half-run just to keep up. They entered a passageway that lead to a black and yellow striped door. Barkov threw it open, startling the two radar operators inside.

             
Utilitarian and dark, the control room was dominated by the green glow of radar CRT screens. Barkov leaned over Pietre Kurskin, the youngest operator. “I want to know where that plane is heading,” he said.

             
Kurskin stared at his screen. It was empty of targets. “Plane, sir?”

             
Barkov removed his gloves. “Keep watching your screen, private.”

             
“Yes, colonel.”

An uncomfortable moment passed before a fuzzy green blip appeared on the screen.

              “There,” said Kurskin. “Target is heading south south-east, approximately 150 knots-” The blip vanished. The young operator’s shoulders slumped. “Uh, target’s gone.”

Barkov nodded as if he had been expecting it. Radchek came up to the other side of the radar operator, studied the screen. He turned to Lieutenant Vukarin who was entering the control room.

              “Call general Tomkin,” said Radchek.

             
Barkov spun around. “Belay that order,” he said with a shower of spittle. Vukarin halted in mid step. “There will be no contact with general Tomkin or anyone else.” The colonel turned his attention back to the screen. Vukarin looked at a flustered Radchek. The lieutenant was younger than Radchek but completely bald, with a mouthful of dull yellow teeth. A short, stocky man, his muscular physique nevertheless bulged through his wool overcoat. Next to Radchek, who was rather handsome, even cosmopolitan in appearance, Vukharin was positively trollish.

             
“Colonel, the man’s a spy,” said Radchek. “It’s procedure to inform high command.” Barkov turned, pressed inches from the captain’s face. Radchek stood his ground, but the Colonel’s presence was intimidating.

             
“Captain Radchek, do you think I achieved my position through ignorance?”

             
“Of course not, sir-”

             
“Target reacquired,” Kurskin interrupted. “Bearing-” The fuzzy green dot blinked off. “Lost it again, colonel.”

             
“Heading?”

             
“Bearing south-southeast. Same as before.”

             
Barkov turned to his puzzled officers. “It’s breezy outside this evening. Imagine what it’s like a thousand feet up.” He turned back to the CRT screen, his face aglow in green light. “Captain Radchek,” said Barkov without looking at him. “I understand your confusion. We will follow procedure as you have suggested. Lieutenant Vukarin will make his call to the general. But only after we’ve captured this spy.” There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before he added, “Now ready your men.”

Nick fought the stick, tried to steady the MiG as winds and downdrafts buffeted the aircraft. In order to fly under their radar, he had to maintain a treetop altitude. With the weather as it was, however, he was sure that he had strayed into radar range more than once.

The aircraft dropped and Nick pulled back on the stick. The ship pitched upward, then dropped 20 feet as another downdraft pushed it toward the treetops. The prop shaved six inches off a white pine before Nick regained control. He steered higher.
To hell with radar
, he thought, realizing that the wind was the immediate threat.

There was also the matter of fuel. He had hoped the gauge was broken, but there was now no denying that the plane’s tanks were emptying, and fast. Unlocking the canopy, he slid the protective blister back and greeted the bitter night wind. With the deafening thrum of the prop ringing in his ears, he studied the structure of the wings and fuselage. In the murky night, the wings faded into blackness. But he could see a row of bullet holes along the starboard wing, and more important, a stream of fluid flowing from several of the holes.

He closed the canopy, checked the compass. Five hundred miles to the southeast was the city of Bratsk. On the outskirts was a farm run by Otto Pulskovar and his family. The meeting between Nick and Pulskovar at a café in Novosibirsk two months before had been arranged by Norwegian operatives.. Pulskovar was Lithuanian by birth and anxious for his country’s independence. He had been a patriot during the war, fighting the Germans with gun and pitchfork. After the war, however, he had come to realize that Josef Stalin was as big a monster as Adolph Hitler. Three months after the war ended, Pulskovar had made contact with the Norwegians through the Polish underground, who recruited him on behalf of British and American intelligence.

Nick’s rendezvous point was Pulskovar’s farm.

He looked at the gauge again. The fuel was leaking at a steady rate. With an updraft and some luck, he might make it another fifty miles. He looked to the ground. Below were hundreds of thousands of square miles of dense forest and not much else. His pack and limited supplies were gone. Siberia in November with no supplies was a death sentence.

Still, he had little choice. The Red Army would scour all of the taiga for him, and his best option was to make their search as difficult as possible. At treetop level, he had been making a straight line for Bratsk, hoping that radar would be unable to spot him. But with the winds as they were, there was no chance of being invisible. By now, he figured, the Yenisey installation was aware of his flight path.

Nick checked his position by starlight. He was heading in a southeasterly direction, toward comparative safety. His plan was simple: turn north, fly in the opposite direction of Bratsk, land the plane, then hike back toward the safe house. If he were lucky, the Red Army would continue searching for him in the direction the plane was flying.

The catch was the 500 mile hike south to Bratsk. With proper supplies, Nick had no doubt he could make it solo. He was young, fit, and well-trained. But he was without proper supplies, and thus his only chance would be the generosity of farmers or villagers along the way. Dressed inconspicuously enough, he didn’t think he’d have a hard time with the locals. And his Russian was good enough to fool them. He had to be optimistic. The alternatives were death or capture.
They don’t play Bing Crosby records in Soviet prisons
he thought.

Nick banked left and headed into the unknown Siberian north.

Barkov watched the radar for a good 15 minutes after Radchek and Vukarin had left. The blip had reappeared for two full minutes before disappearing at 58 degrees, 6 minutes North, 96 degrees, 18 minutes East. Now he was heading north and Barkov wondered if the pilot had any idea where he was going. Save for a few villages, northern Siberia was as desolate as the Sahara desert. Without supplies, without a rendezvous point, without any help from the outside, it was not a place one could survive for long. Judging from the pack they found, Barkov surmised that the man had not planned on an extended stay.