The River of Bones v5 (8 page)

The next morning they preflighted their airplanes and flew off again, using GPS latitude and longitude to guide them as they buzzed across the snowy barrens toward Lake Baikal.

An unbelievable piece of equipment, Jake told himself. 
Click, click,
and the nautical miles were accurate within four feet. 
Click, click,
and there was the correct course, as compared to what the airplane’s magnetic compass said. 
Click, click,
and there was the time en route.  How on earth had pilots flown long cross-countries before?  He then remembered the maps, measurements, and flight planning pilots had gone through in the past.  Not long ago their crazy odyssey would have been nearly impossible, lacking all the right maps.  Now everything was in a microchip.

He led Simon up and down low mountains, then higher ones.  Not good, he thought.  Keep flying this way and you’ll run out of gas sooner, rather than later, and someone would surely see them flying down the long valleys as well.

But what other choice was there?  They must hold their course.  Cold fear gripped him, although he told himself stay calm.  He had faced tough flying before—in dark, rolling thunderstorms, icing, and severe turbulence.  Hold your course, his secret voice whispered, and everything will work out.  But . . . he swung his eyes back and forth searching for Russian fighters.

Hour after hour he flew, buzzing up one mountain and down another, zigzaging through canyons, hugging hillsides, and diving down along lowlands that ran the right way.  Throttle up, throttle back, bank left, then right, climb and dive until you were sick of it, all to stay low and off radar.

He knew Simon and he’d pop up as an indistinct blip if they were discovered in their close formation, but without any posted flight plan matching their course, red alerts would go off, warning every military base along their flight path.  They could only hope to dodge under the invisible beams scanning the horizon by flying below their normal elevation and in the ground clutter that always spoiled their return to the station.  He knew the B50 bombers and F111 fighters had been built for the same purpose back when he was kid.  The U.S. Air Force must have discovered Russia’s radar was faulty, so chances were good they could avoid detection by staying low.

At last he found what he was looking for—a hunting shack passed below his left wing.  Snow tractor trails covered the lake the cabin was on, and its chimney pipe looked free of smoke, meaning the owner was away.  The time had come for breaking their radio silence.

“Iceworm, let’s land and check this place out.  Looks like no one is home.”

“Roger, looks good.”

He landed, kept his Cub sledding on its skis, circled back to the hunting camp, and saw Simon was trailing him and coming around fast as well.  They already had their plan—come head-on and keep their Uzis ready in case the owner popped up unexpectedly.

Frozen reindeer carcasses, freshly slaughtered, hung solemnly from a cross-pole tied between two small trees.  Wolf hides and blue fox fur, nailed to the gable of the cabin, fluttered in the wind.  A woodpile was stacked nearby, and a small clapboard cache on stilts stood off to one side.  A broken sled, wooden cross-country skis, and several fuel drums were scattered around.  The place looked just like the hunting camps he’d often visited in Alaska, practical but messy, and mostly built from the resources of the taiga surrounding the lake.

After shutting down the engine, he waited in his airplane and watched the empty yard.  Both had agreed Simon would go first, then if someone was home at least they could talk to him or her.

Simon walked by.  “Stay put and I’ll snoop around.  We better hope the guy living here is running his trapline.”

Simon climbed the shoreline, kicking through the snow as if there was no great rush to reach the cabin.  Stepping up onto the porch, he knocked on the door.  Pausing, he knocked once more, then shouted,
“Zdrastvooytye, Zdrastvooytye.”
  Next, he walked across the yard to a fuel barrel and kicked it, then kicked another.  A smile spread on his face and he waved both arms, signaling he’d found full ones.

Jumping out of his airplane, Jake also smiled.  All his worry now seemed silly.  Start carrying gas, he told himself, and let’s get out of here before the owner gets back.  We’ll leave him a thousand bucks and that should keep him happy.  He shoved his Uzi inside his parka, pulled his rifle out of its scabbard, and walked ashore.

“Is there enough so we can take a hundred gallons and still leave some behind?  Whoever lives here is a professional hunter and needs his snow tractor, and I don’t want to put him out of business.”

“There’s plenty, and I doubt he’ll give a damn if we leave him a little money.”

“I thought we’d leave a thousand dollars.”

Simon cocked an eyebrow.  “That’s more than thirty thousand rubles at the present rate of exchange.  He may never want to hunt or trap again.”

They starting carrying gas, twenty gallons at a time, first filling their wing tanks, then the belly tanks.  They emptied one drum and opened another.  The surrounding taiga lay silent, except for the sounds they made as they hurried back and forth.

Suddenly, Simon stopped in mid-stride.  “I hear something coming.”

Listening, Jake stood still as well.  Yes . . . no.  There was only the silence of the wind.  Had they really heard faint noises or were their ears playing tricks?  Both stayed frozen in place.

Whack!
  Bark flew off a tree near them, then an echo of a rifle shot rolled down the lake.  They instantly dove behind some barrels.

Scowling, Simon peeked over the fuel drums.  “Looks like someone has just declared war on us, so now what?”

“I don’t think the guy meant to hit us or else he wouldn’t have clipped the tree.  Maybe he’s just telling us to get out of here.”

Simon grimaced again.  “Damn, suddenly you’re the optimist.  Suppose he just missed us and
accidentally
hit the tree.”

“Let’s make a run for his cabin.  I doubt he wants to shoot up his only home, not out here.  He’ll freeze to death if he stays out too long, and he isn’t in position to start a fire.”

“I still think you’re way too cheery for the trouble we’re in, but cover me, then I’ll cover you when I’m inside.”  Simon rolled onto his knees, crouched, then ran for the cabin door, pumping his long legs through the snow.  He jumped inside, then peeked out when there was no gunfire.

Keeping his head down, Jake got ready.  One—two—three, go.  He ran for his life, then heard a bullet buzz past him, like an angry bumblebee, as he dove in the door.  Maybe the hunter wasn’t a lousy shot after all.

“Now what?” asked Simon.  “Looks like we’ve gotten ourselves into a big standoff.  He can’t attack and we can’t retreat, and we better hope he doesn’t shoot up our airplanes.  Then we’ll be really screwed.”

A cramped, cluttered place, Jake thought.  One window on each side, no back door, a cook stove, a bunk bed, a table, and an old radio-generator, driven by bicycle pedals.  He had wondered why there were long wires strung outside.  The hunter had a high-frequency transmitter.

“We’re in the better position because we can stay here a lot longer than he can wait out there.  Let’s wave a white flag and see what he does.  Tell him that we only wanted to buy fuel, but he wasn’t home.  I doubt he’s making much money, so maybe he’ll see the wisdom in letting us go.”

Simon wrinkled his face.  “I hope he understands Russian or else we’re still doomed.  Maybe we should squeeze off a few rounds with our Uzis and your Winchester.  Let him know what he’s up against, then the money might matter more to him.”

“We’ll try your idea next.  I’ll wave his kitchen towel out the door, then you try talking to him.  Get him close enough so we can work this thing out.”  Cracking open the door, he flagged a dish towel he’d found hanging by a wash tub.

Simon crept to the door, opened it, and yelled.  Again and again, he called at the top of his voice.  They listened for several minutes.

Finally, a long call drifted down the lake, then the same call echoed once more.  Simon turned and smiled wryly.  “He must have watched some of our old western movies.  He said to come out with our hands up.”

Jake groaned.  Time was on their side, but starting a big shootout was a bad decision, but what other choice did they have?  They had to take the chance.

“You think guys like him have machine guns?”

“Are you kidding?  Not even since
perestroika
twenty years ago.”

“Who does?”

“The military . . . and I suppose the
Mafiya. 
Both scare the hell out of people.”

“Tell him we’re with the military, ferrying foreign aircraft to Moscow, and have the automatic weapons to prove it.  Add that we’re willing to pay him in American dollars, but if he doesn’t stop shooting at us we’ll radio the nearest district guard and have him arrested.  Afterward, fire your Uzi in the air and yell that he’s making us really mad.”

“Might work, and I doubt he’s heard machine gun fire before, and it’s always inspired the hell out of me.”  Simon opened his parka, pulled out his machine pistol, and yelled again.  Moments later, he sprayed the sky with a burst of gunfire, filling the air with a long volley.  He yelled once again, this time sounding mad as hell.

They waited . . . and again Jake wondered why his best friend spoke Russian so well.  Finally, both heard another call.

“It’s worked—sort of,” said Simon.  “He wants me to walk out on the lake, unarmed, then he’ll ride over and talk to me.  I think we almost have him persuaded.

“But keep an eye on him because he’ll wonder why we’re not wearing army green.  I’ll tell him it’s been too damn cold, and I’ll try convincing him to come into the cabin.  Act like you’re pissed at him for shooting at you, but be careful not to say a word.  I’ll make excuses for you not talking to him.  Maybe he’ll cooperate if we offer him enough money, despite his doubts.  And sabotage his transmitter after I walk out.  Otherwise, he’ll radio Moscow the moment we leave.”

Jake frowned.  “Stay off to one side so I can keep him in my sights.”  He then checked his rifle for a live round.  Simon put down his Uzi and walked outside.

Stepping to the high-frequency radio, Jake opened its back cover, yanked out all the frequency chips, and shoved them in his pocket.  Seconds afterward, he walked to the doorway and sighted through his scope.  An old red snow tractor was coming across the lake, its driver riding on the far side, hiding from any line of fire.  Simon stood in the distance, waiting.

The tractor stopped beside Simon, and a brown face, partly hidden by a parka hood, peered around its front.  Jake held the rifle’s cross-hairs right between the man’s eyes, touched the trigger, and waited.  He watched Simon hold out his right hand, offering money, beckoning the man to get out of his machine.  A minute passed.  Both bargained back and forth.  The driver stepped onto the snow with his rifle.

Simon turned and walked nearer the cabin, leading the man to the yard.  They stopped and talked some more, waving their arms, ostensibly making their points.  He watched Simon leave the man and walk inside the cabin.

“I’ve got him almost convinced, but he’s a full-blooded Yakut and his Russian is so bad it’s hard to know if he really understands me.  Anyway, he wants you to come out so he can see you.

“And here’s the deal.  You wait beside the airplanes and he’ll stand by the cabin, guarding his stuff.  You can keep your rifle, but I’m supposed to put the Uzis away and stay unarmed.  He’s happy with the thousand dollars and has agreed to sell us a hundred liters of fuel.  A standoff is fine with him, so long as he can keep an eye on us.”

“When you step out just grunt every time I say something to you in Russian.  I’ve told him you’re awfully mad but will follow my orders.  The agreement is I’ll taxi each airplane out of rifle range after I finish filling them, and you’ll follow on foot, guarding our rear.  He’ll have his money and we’ll have our fuel.  You ready?”

Jake nodded, handed him both Uzis, and stepped outdoors.  The Yakut stood across the yard with his rifle, eyes looking hawkish.

Walking to the Super Cubs, Jake turned and watched the hunter, who now stood on the porch of his cabin.  Simon hurried back and forth, carrying fuel, smiling, speaking every time he passed the hunter.  Finally, he walked over and handed him a big roll of bills, saying,
“Spasiba.  Balshoye spasiba.”

Jake watched the native smile, grab the money with his right hand, and hold his rifle in the other.  Simon walked away, waved like an old friend, climbed into the nearest Cub, and taxied away.  Then he jogged back and roared off with the second Cub, and finally both airplanes looked like black dots.

Walking backward, Jake smiled and waved as well.  The Yakut turned, leaned his rifle against the cabin, and walked inside, out of sight.  Instantly, Jake ran, stretching his legs for every bit of distance.  Christ, he wished it wasn’t so slow slogging through the snow.  The Yakut would find out about his damaged transmitter in just a couple minutes, which was all the time he had to escape.

His mind’s eye saw the man sitting on the transmitter’s little seat, pedaling fast, calling and calling, then discovering the missing chips.  No use looking back . . . the bullets would either hit or miss him completely.  The echoing shots of the rifle would only mean the hunter had missed once again.  You never heard the gunshot that killed you.

Eee . . . boom! 
The first bullet screamed past him, and snow flew up ahead, followed by the blast of the shot.  Zigzagging, he prayed the Yakut couldn’t hit moving targets.  His rifle had been an old military piece with metal sights, measured in meters.  It would take a moment to reset the tiny V that slid up and down and take aim once more.  There was still time.

Eee . . . boom!
  Snow and ice burst in a mist beside him and then everything seemed to move in slow-motion, the effect of being scared to death, he supposed.  The Yakut had found the range.  He had better time his headlong dive perfectly or else the third round would hit him.