The River of Bones v5 (9 page)

Get down, his mind screamed.  He missed hearing the sharp crack of the Yakut’s third round over the noise of hurtling headfirst into the snow.  Quickly, he rolled onto his feet and ran again.  Don’t give him an easy shot.  Another few yards and he’d be out of range.

He heard Simon open up with his own rifle, though he knew his friend was too far away for an accurate shot.  Lob a couple anyway and keep the guy’s head down.

Eee . . . boom, boom!
  He listened to the sweet echo of Simon’s second round.  Run, run, his mind screamed.  A little farther and he’d be out of danger.

At last he reached the airplanes, still gasping for air from the long, deadly race for his life.  Simon, smiling solemnly, was waiting by his Cub’s right wing.  He pushed his rifle back in its scabbard.  “Have you ever had anyone shoot at you before?” he asked.

“No, not like today, and it scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry I waited so long to shoot back, but you had enough bullets flying over your head, without adding mine.  I didn’t want to risk dropping one short and hitting you.  Besides, you were looking good out there, like an old pro.”

“I want to sneak back and kill him.  His last two shots didn’t miss me by much.”

“Let’s not kill anybody if we don’t have to.  It’s awful when you see someone you’ve shot.  Trust me when I tell you that it’s never, never worth it.”  Simon climbed inside his airplane.  “Come on, we still have a long way to go.”

Nodding, Jake walked to his Cub, feeling his trembling hands and legs.  Baikal seemed so far away.

CHAPTER SEVEN

LAKE BAIKAL

Hours passed
.  Jake led Simon along the Penshena River, hiding between its banks in the lower places, over the country north of the Kamchatka Peninsula, then climbed a spine of mountains that had run parallel with them a long way, but had hooked south to block their flight path.  Snowcapped summits, frozen rivers, snowbound flatlands . . . the landscape looked as wintery and uninhabited as any he’d seen in North America.  He studied the Rand McNally map of Russia he’d purchased before leaving Anchorage and watched the GPS tick off the miles and coordinates, marking his position.  Blindfold me, he thought, then uncover my eyes and I wouldn’t know Siberia from Alaska, because the vastness looked so much alike.

Then he saw the Kolyma River and the wintertime smoke of a settlement named Balygytschan on a tributary by the same name.  He estimated they were about two hundred miles north of Magadan, the old prison town on the Sea of Okhotsk.

Magadan had been the cruelest of all the communist prison camps, or the
gulags
as most people called them, for more than sixty years.  Gold had been discovered, and Stalin had ordered the KGB to work the mines with slave labor.  None of the later premiers had ever felt more merciful and millions disappeared, never to be seen again.  The hills around town were full of mass graves, leaving Hitler’s death camps pale in comparison.  The Soviets had run Magadan with even crueler mastery than the Nazis had shown in World War Two.

His memory of Russian history, combined with Sasha’s fear of her own countrymen, troubled him.  In addition, he’d seen the dark side of Russia while surfing the internet back in Anchorage.  The Russians had always let dictators govern them, whether it had been the Romanovs or premiers like Lenin and Stalin.  Something weird made them choose bloodthirsty leaders, even at the cost of their lives.  That enduring mystery meant danger for his friends and him—death would be the penalty if they were ever captured.  He wished he’d more fully beaten that fact into Molly’s brain before she’d left for Moscow, and wondered why Simon hadn’t done so himself.  He had the closer relationship with her.  Had they thrown her to the wolves?

A higher range of mountains stood ahead, called the Chrebet Tscherskogo, and he steered midway between two peaks, shown on his map as almost 2,500 meters high.  Again, he was struck with the similarity of Siberia to Alaska.  This was ground Simon and he could live in if they were forced to flee.

Not many men and women could stay alive in the Arctic, which meant they might have the edge in an escape.  They had honed their survival skills on purpose and could easily run and hide.  Guerrillas had often proven superior to whole armies, and the Russians had learned that bitter lesson in Afghanistan.  The Majahideen had kicked their butts for years in a wilderness just like Siberia.  He believed they could do the same, though on a much smaller scale.

A road flashed under his wings. 
Civilization.  Danger.
  He quickly snapped his microphone button twice, warning Simon, and looked for a place to land.  Now they must change their tactics.  They had just crossed the primitive highway running north to the Indigirka River, which, in turn, ran north a thousand miles to the East Siberian Sea.  Another road coming east from Yakutsk, then south to Magadan, was one hundred miles ahead.  Seeing an alpine meadow, he glided onto the snow, and stopped.

Simon landed alongside him, cut his engine, and opened his door.  “I see you’ve found the Kolyma road.  Damn, it’s great seeing some trees again.”  His eyes beamed.

They had reached the northern tree line, which roughly marked the boundary between the Far East and Siberia itself in the last hour.  They could finally build a fire, presuming they kept the blaze small.  He searched for a spruce tree to help break up the smoke.

“Help me find somewhere to camp and let’s get some sleep.  We’ll fly the next leg with our night glasses.  We’re almost halfway to Baikal, and I’m worn out.”

“At least no one has a clue we’re here,” Simon said, “except the Yakut several hundred miles back, and he won’t get into town until June or July.  We didn’t come closer than five miles to a damn thing.  God, was that country ever desolate.  Never saw anything like it.”

“The rest of the way has settlements scattered along the course we need to follow,” said Jake.  “We’ll meet a road a hundred miles west of here, and it’ll look like the Alaskan Highway.  Once we see it, we’ll follow it until we see Yakutsk.  The Lena River runs past there, coming downstream from Lake Baikal.”

“We need more gas.”  Simon’s eyes lost their brightness.  “What do you have in mind?”

Without fuel, they would run out somewhere along the Lena.

“I’m not sure.  What are the chances of stealing fuel off an airport?”

Simon made a face and shook his head.  “Most Russian airports are military, and I don’t think we dare take the chance.  Let’s go on and find something along the road.”

They walked into the woods, cut evergreen boughs, covered their airplanes, breaking the outline of the wings and tails, then stood more boughs against the fuselages, camouflaging the sides.  Afterward, they returned to the woods, pitched camp, and fell asleep.  Soon, the night would become their friend.

At midnight a white moon woke them.  Shadows reached across the woods like long sooty fingers, and the nighttime was silent.  They stored their sleeping bags and tent and warmed their engines for takeoff.  Both throttled up and flew away, shooting once more into a world of gray light, backlit by the moon and stars.

An hour later they found the road to Yakutsk and followed it, staying low in the clearing through the trees.  Three hours passed and they saw only one set of headlights.  Then they saw the two bridges spanning the Maja and Amga rivers, which joined the Aldan River, twenty miles north.  The Aldan, Jake remembered, flowed into the mighty Lena, just north of Yakutsk.  They had gotten themselves into the middle of several major roads, rivers, and towns.

He keyed the microphone.  “Iceworm, we need to land.”  Two telltale clicks popped on the speaker.  Simon knew the risk.

Jake flew on, straining his eyes against the shadowy world all around him.  Where could they land and stay out of sight?  The prying eyes of another pilot might pass overhead, or a hunter might see them.  Where could they hide?

Suddenly, an idea struck him . . . or maybe it was complete madness.  He pulled off his goggles and peered at the Rand McNally, holding a flashlight in his mouth and flipping through the folds of paper with his hands.  Yes, about twenty miles east of Yakutsk another bridge ran across a river flowing into the Lena.

Did anyone bother looking under a bridge?  He doubted it.  He had seldom wondered what lay under any overpass he’d used, and you couldn’t see below most bridges even if you wanted to.

He clicked the microphone again.  “Stay close, Iceworm.”  Next, he pulled his night goggles back on and looked out the righthand window.  Simon’s left wing was just below his airplane’s slipstream, and his friend’s catty grin gleamed in the moonlight, despite the restricted vision.

Leave it to Simon to fool around in the face of danger.  Then he wondered what would happen to his friend’s wide grin when he saw the challenge ahead.

Moments later, he watched the skyline brighten, then turn silvery with the lights of Yakutsk.  He stiffened, hoping no one lived beside the bridge or along the highway leading out of town.  Moreover, landing an airplane at night on a frozen river was always a death wish.  Which direction was the wind?  Was the surface rough or smooth?  Were there any wires around?    He saw the bridge go by and a river cut under the road.

Rolling left, he pulled hard, hoping Simon would distance himself in the steep bank and high G’s of the turn.  He quickly leveled the wings and searched for a place to land.  Banking once more, he lined up on the murky river below him, pulled flaps, and let down.  Darkness, nothing but darkness, he thought to himself, as he dropped.

Christ, power lines!
  At the last second he saw the highline towers on each side of the river.  He slammed his right rudder to the floorboards and rammed the stick forward and left, sideslipping the Super Cub for all its worth.

Slow motion set in.  Dive, little airplane, dive, or else we’re dead.  After a few seconds he saw the thick cables fly
overhead and he dared breath again.  God, help Simon . . .

Wham--bang--boom! 
What the hell had he hit?  The airplane
bucked on its skis along the snow-covered river, bouncing side to side.  Please don’t wreck the landing gear, his mind pleaded.  Finally, he stopped and listened to the engine run at idle.  The airplane still sat level and nothing seemed broken.  He throttled up, taxied under the bridge, and parked.  He saw Simon’s airplane stop beside him.  His friend had made it down safely as well.  He exhaled, sat quietly, and felt the fear creep through him.  Again, death had come very close.

He opened his door, stepped out, and searched the shorelines along the river.  Perfect, not a building in sight.

He listened for barking dogs and human voices.  Hearing nothing but silence, he gazed at the bridgework thirty feet overhead, also perfect for what he had in mind.

Simon walked over to him.  “Goddamnit, that was rough.  You scared the hell out of me when you hooked that turn and lined up on the river.  So much for you being cautious.  You only missed those highlines by a few feet.”

“I didn’t see them until the last second.  Thank God a Cub falls like a rock in a sideslip, or else I’d look like an arc welder right now.  I wonder why we live like this.”

Simon laughed.  “We’re two misfits like I said before and don’t know how to live any other way.  We’ll grow old and die if we quit.”

“My heart may stop, regardless, if I have any more close calls.”  Sighing, Jake remembered the dangers he’d faced in the past two days, and hoped their next gamble would go better.  “Let’s cut some branches and brush out the tracks we left.  I intend on hijacking the first fuel truck that comes along.”  He heard Simon’s laugh change to a low whistle as his friend inhaled the cold air in surprise.

After rubbing out their ski trails they stood silently, listening to the loneliness of the coming dawn—the squirrels fussing about their presence, the jays calling back and forth, the peeps of mice feeding under the snow.  They had set down on a frozen rapids, strewn with rough ice and rocks.  Luck had been on their side, because they could have just as easily crashed.

Full daylight came, and Jake climbed the nearest embankment and checked the road.  Old tire tracks indicated it had not been used for hours.  He skidded back down and walked to Simon.  Their only hope lay in waiting . . . waiting for the right truck.

“Let’s climb up and position ourselves.  Eventually, a tanker will come along.”

“Make sure you shoot the tire off the right kind,” said Simon.  “Look for a tractor pulling a fuel trailer, then chances are one compartment will be carrying gas.  We’ll look pretty stupid if we line up four or five trucks, all hauling fuel oil, rather than the gasoline we need.”

Jake smiled—the hazards of highjacking, according to Simon.  He slung his rifle over his shoulder and shoved the Uzi inside his parka, keeping it warm against his body.  The temperature gauge on the airplane had dropped to minus five degrees Centigrade, and he hoped they wouldn’t have to wait long.

Two hours passed.  He kicked and stomped, trying to stay warm, and saw Simon mimicking him, closer to the bridge.  They had set their ambush in birch and poplar saplings alongside the road, spacing themselves a quarter-mile apart.  Three automobiles had come by just after sunrise, bouncing along the ice-rutted road at moderate speeds.  Good, he’d told himself, a heavy truck would have to drive more carefully.  He wouldn’t miss the front tire, not with an Uzi spraying lead like a water hose, and one burst would do it.

At last he saw a tank truck coming around a distant corner.  The green tractor, snarling and blowing smoke every time its driver shifted gears on the uneven road, was pulling three long wagons, colored green as well.  Coming east from Yakutsk, the rig was clearly full of fuel of different kinds.  He quickly sighted the two men sitting in front in his rifle scope.  The truck was military.  But why did the men look so civilian with their messy hair and ordinary clothing?  They seemed uneasy as well.  Why? . . .