Siberius (11 page)

There were none.

He expected to hear the mechanical clattering of diesel truck engines.

He didn’t.

The thumping that awakened them had now stopped.

“
Pretty quiet,” Nick whispered. Talia’s face pleaded with him to shut up.

He nodded and mouthed
okay.

They sat there on the floor for a brief moment before Nick stood up. He mouthed
I think they’re gone.
Talia didn’t think so.

She was right.

The shock wave rocked the roof and walls, and Nick and Talia hit the floor. Books, tins and sacks fell as shelves collapsed. Trapped dust between timbers spewed outward, clouding the inside of the cabin. Nick rolled over onto his back, looked up at the ceiling.

The timbers groaned as something heavy shuffled back and forth.

Another blast hit, knocking rusted bear traps and antlers from ceiling rafters. Nick covered his head as a rack from a 12 point buck fell on top of him.

Talia crawled to the far wall and braced herself against the blanketed timbers. The cabin was struck yet again, this time from somewhere near the door. Shuddering walls released more shelves and dust as Nick scrambled to join her. Together, they eyed the door as something banged repeatedly against it. A sudden pungent odor seeped through the cracks, and Nick recognized it at once. It was the smell of a barn.

The smell of animals.

Transfixed on the crack below the door, Talia remained mute. Whatever was outside knew they were in there. It could
hear
them. Nick pointed the pistol at the door, but hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. Whatever was out there, he didn’t think his little handgun was going to do much to stop it.

Another noise came from outside, but this one was different, simultaneously sharp and grinding. Something
clawed
at
the hardy longs. Talia’s eyes went wide as the door bulged inward. She leaped up, pressed her hands against the wood. Nick joined her and they pushed against the door, trying to counter the force. It had little affect. Whatever was on the other side was stronger.

And then there was a sudden, sustained roar that made Nick Somerset forget the mission, the Red Army and even Talia Markovich. He ducked his head as if a low-flying plane had just buzzed them. Freakish chills swept over his body. He swallowed hard.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

Talia left his side, pushed away the hanging blanket near the door. Nick watched as she attempted to slide yet another door along tracks carved into the log wall and floor. He hadn’t seen it before, but he didn’t care. This door was thicker, built from whole logs a foot in diameter.

“Help me,” Talia said, straining to push the weight. Nick got up and pulled, exerting his muscles with an urgency he had never before known. With a comforting thunk, it slid into place. Talia searched for and found a steel pole, then jammed it between twin recesses in the door and the floor.

Another shock wave hit the cabin. There was a sound like cracking lightning as the walls shifted on the clay foundation. A wave of dread overcame Talia, and her stomach sank. The walls
moved
, pulling at the chimney pipe and toppling the stove and red-hot embers across the blanket covered floor. They combusted on contact, the dry old wool feeding a growing yellow fire. Talia yanked the covers from the bed and lunged through the air, pouncing on the flames. Nick reached for a tin, spilled out the jerky and scooped up the embers, tossing them into a pot. Smoke engulfed the interior of the cabin.

Dropping to the floor, Nick found fresher air, took a deep breath, then tugged at Talia’s pant leg. She joined him, coughing and spitting, while outside, another sound stabbed the night. It started as a high-pitched shriek and ended with a deep, resonating roar. The sound froze Nick, for he had never, ever heard anything like it before. Together, they watched the door, awaiting the next attack.

It didn’t come.

Shaken, they remained on the floor, huddled and silent, for the rest of the night.

13

Corovich steered the 6x6 truck through the trees. Tears streaked his face and he sniffled strings of snot back into his nose. The little windshield wipers squeaked and screeched as they pushed against the glass. Twenty minutes ago, the snow started to fall again. Ten minutes ago, near blizzard conditions overtook Corovich and the Jimmie. The truck’s headlamps may as well have been shining onto a bed sheet, because that’s what it looked like through the windshield.

              He wiped the tears away with his shirtsleeve. Corovich was not crying out of sadness, no, for he was a soldier of the Soviet Union’s massive Red Army. Three hours ago, the eviscerated form of private Yergetchin stumbled into his arms. The man was in deep shock, his body a shredded mess. What could have done such a thing? Corovich didn’t know. His immediate thought was that his friend had been attacked by an animal. A bear, perhaps. That theory changed as Corovich drove deeper into the wilderness.

             
The men under his charge had been ambushed, that was for certain. While there may have been one spy initially, it was now clear that what must have been a network was hiding out somewhere in the Siberian forest. Bayonets or knives caused Yergetchin’s wounds. That was more logical than an animal. Besides, weren’t bears hibernating now?

Corovich wondered what happened to the others. He wondered if they had been taken prisoner or killed outright. Maybe they were holed up somewhere, defending a position. Perhaps they had overtaken the Americans and killed them, but were too wounded to return to the truck. That was what he had hoped. If it were true, then Corovich was a cavalry of one to the rescue. He allowed the fantasy of plowing into the American encampment and saving his men. He would be received as a hero. Perhaps given a medal. A handshake from Stalin himself would be in order. Wouldn’t that be fitting?

              Corovich’s fantasies melted away. A wave of dread overtook him and there was but one reason: Yergetchin’s dying words.
The snow
, he had said.
It has eyes
. What did it mean? Were they the words of a man in shock? Or had he seen something he couldn’t understand?

             
The Jimmie scraped against the branches of a tall fir tree. The sound was enough for Corovich to slow down. The forest was thick, but he had blazed a trail through miles of it, heading ever northward into the deepest part of the Siberian taiga. At present, he began to doubt the wisdom of his decision. The snow was falling in such thick sheets that he couldn’t make out anything. Trees were mere shadows, themselves fading under a coat of snow.

He glanced over at the field radio. He had turned it off after beginning his search. The last thing he wanted to do was explain to Vukarin or Radchek or Barkov what he was doing. The thought of talking to any of them right then sent his stomach into a fit of butterflies. It wouldn’t have been so bad had it not been his first command.

              The forest thinned out ahead; birch trunks and low hanging pine boughs became easier to see.
It’s letting up,
Corovich thought. The falling white sheet broke up into a mottled pattern. It was still coming down, but now there was something for the headlights to shine on besides snow. Studying the terrain before him, Corovich tried to see beyond the end of the headlights. He didn’t know for sure where he was going, but it didn’t matter. Although he had tried to follow Yergetchin’s footprints, the storm had in no time covered them. He now relied on his own intuition and, he hoped, lots of luck.

Luck, as it turned out, was enough.

Two headlights became visible in the distance, and Corovich slammed on the breaks, bringing the big Jimmie to a sliding stop. His breathing grew quicker and the windows fogged up. Wiping gray moisture from the glass, he struggled to see into the woods.

He had seen headlights, he was sure of it. Small and distant, but nevertheless there. He reached for a button, depressed it. Darkness overtook the truck cab as the Jimmie’s lights went out. Corovich slowed his breathing. Before him stood a panorama of trees and snow, all painted in various shades of black and midnight blue. Peering out into the night, he squinted and searched, but saw nothing. No headlights. No sign of life. Emptiness.

He pushed the button on the dash and the truck’s headlights lit up the forest. Releasing the break pedal, he inched forward. Gripping the steering wheel, Corovich scanned the area.

             
There.

In the distance, two small headlights glowed through the trees and snow

shower. Corovich couldn’t tell if they were moving or not, but he was sure of one thing:

He was no longer alone.
             

Now he was faced with the lesser of two evils. The first was that, because of

Corovich’s radio silence, Barkov had sent another truck back for them. That wasn’t a good thing. The second was that the truck, or whatever it was, wasn’t a friendly one.

Americans
, he thought.

             
A second set of headlights appeared next to the first. Corovich slammed the brakes again and the Jimmie came to a stop. They were still distant and to Corovich, looked as if they were parked. It was stretching it to think that the Americans could have landed a truck or halftrack deep into the heart of Siberia. But two?

             
A third and fourth set of headlights joined the others and it was then that Corovich knew what they were: the convoy. Barkov had indeed come back for them. But how did they get this far north? Another thought came to him: the men had contacted the convoy, radioed in for help. Maybe even reported the capture of an American encampment. It was possible. Corovich’s radio had been turned off now for hours. “That’s it,” he said. “It’s the convoy.” He wondered how he could explain himself. His radio worked fine, the truck worked fine and he was uninjured. What would his excuse be?

Rolling the window down, Corovich grabbed the field radio and chucked it into the snow. “I searched for them, Colonel,” he said in practice. “Fell down a river embankment in the dark. The radio went through the ice.” He smiled at his cleverness.
Yes, that’ll work fine
, he thought.
Everything is going to be fine.

             
The headlights disappeared one set at a time, leaving darkness. “No,” Corovich cried as he released the brake pedal. He floored it and the big Jimmie rolled forward, lurching with every gearshift as it built speed.

             
The truck plowed blindly through deep snow, and Corovich didn’t see the gap in the earth until it was too late. The Jimmie’s front tires hit air and the corporal’s  stomach rose into his chest. Plunging ever downward, the truck landed with a metal-crunching crash, sending Corovich into the windshield.

Glass and bone shattered on impact.
             

*   *   *

              “Vukarin to Corovich,” the lieutenant said into the field radio. “Corporal, do you read me? Over.” Vukarin looked at Radchek. They both stood in front of the Maultier, a map spread out on the hood and weighed down with their canteens. Falling snow had obscured it.

             
Radchek took the radio. “Corovich, this is Captain Radchek,” he said. “Answer me at once.” Static.

             
“Something is wrong,” Vukarin said, and Radchek glared at him for stating the obvious. He was tired, they were all tired. He handed the lieutenant the field radio, turned and looked back at the convoy.

             
They were parked in a clearing, the trio of trucks snaking dark shapes against the white plain. It was just past three o’clock in the morning, and they were still searching. Falling snow had long since buried the toboggan-like tracks they had been following. Nevertheless, Barkov had stopped the convoy and was now sweeping the clearing on foot, hoping to find some remnant of the tracks.

             
Three miles to the east, road 2-7 lay buried somewhere under three feet of snow. Radchek climbed atop the half-track’s running board and searched for headlights. There were none.

             
“We haven’t heard anything from Corovich or his men in over three hours,” said Vukarin. Radchek climbed down from the running board. “I think we should begin searching for them immediately.”

             
Radchek’s eyes were bloodshot and watery. His head throbbed from lack of sleep. Nevertheless, he remained lucid. Lucid enough, anyway. “What of our search for the American?” he said.

             
“Call it off,” said the lieutenant. “We’ll search for Corovich while you return to Yenisey. You can radio General Tomkin to send a recon patrol.”