Siberius (12 page)

             
“And the colonel?”

             
Vukarin took a deep breath and said, “It’s within your right to relieve him of his command. His actions are not those of a rational officer. Or even a sane man.”

             
“Barkov would shoot me on the spot,” said Radchek.

“
He’s crazy, but not that crazy.”

Radchek rubbed his eyes. “I’m afraid, Gavrila, that you don’t know how

crazy he is.”

Vukarin waited for more, but it didn’t come. “What do you mean?” he said.

              “He has one thing on his mind,” Radchek said. “And that’s to leave Yenisey. And Siberia.”

             
Vukarin searched for some logic behind it all. He turned toward the trees and saw the men returning. “What do you know about him?” the lieutenant asked.

             
“I know that he was transferred to us after some incident involving another officer. I don’t know anything beyond that,” said Radchek. “I’m a captain.”

             
Vukarin looked down at the field radio in his hand. “What about Corovich?”

             
“I’ll tell the colonel what’s happened.” Radchek brushed the snow from the map and folded it up. “No matter what, though, Corovich and his men are on their own for now.”

*   *   *

              Barkov tread through the deep snow, his body consumed with hunger and exhaustion. He pledged to himself that he would not eat or sleep until the American was caught. Somehow, what his body craved, his mind brushed off. Separating himself from physical needs kept his focus, increased his resolve.

At a stand of birch trees, Barkov stopped and stared up into the night sky. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, he broke down in tears. Leaning against a tree, he sobbed, his body shaking with overwhelming grief. Sinking to the snow, he held the birch trunk as if it were his wife, Karina.

As quick as it came, however, the pain was over, and Barkov snapped out of it. He wiped away the tears, grabbed a handful of snow, and smashed it into his face. He did this again and again until his skin was red and raw. Leaning up against the trunk, he inhaled lungs full of air, and then methodically exhaled steam into the frosty night. His eyes focused on the peeling white bark of the birch tree in front of him.

That’s when he noticed them.

Several feet up the trunk were two gashes 12 inches long. Barkov reached up and fingered them. They were clean, not more than a few days old. A few feet away, another birch tree had the same markings. He turned in the opposite direction. Another tree, and another set of gashes. Beyond that, another. And another. And another. All had double gashes, like crude number 11s, dug into the bark.

             
He backed up toward the tree line and the edge of the clearing. The towering forest surrounded him. Snowflakes no longer fell, they swarmed. There was something not right about this place with its hacked number 11s. Something evil, in fact.

Without knowing why, he ran back to the convoy as fast as he could.

14

             
Corovich awoke to the sound of rushing water. Lying across the steering wheel, his bloody forehead pressed up against the shattered windshield. He reached for the dash and pushed himself back. The truck was now at a steep angle, the seat back almost parallel with the ground, and Corovich found himself supporting all his weight with his arms. The sound of the water was disorienting, but numbing cold in his feet and legs forced his attention. He tried to clear his head, but he had suffered his second concussion of the day, and the fuzziness in his brain was not going away.

             
He wiped blood from his eyes, blinked hard a few times, and focused on the truck cab. Through the broken side windows and dash vents, a steady flow of frigid water filled up the interior to the bench. Chunks of ice bunched up outside the partially-submerged cab, while smaller shards floated in one window and out the other. Soaked to the bone and shivering to stay warm, Corovich reached for the door handle, found it and pulled it up. It didn’t budge. He pushed against it with all his might, but a dizzying wave overcame him and he had to stop. The dashboard and windshield were stained red, with little bloodcicles reaching down from the steering wheel. He tried to catch his breath, but half-submerged in the freezing creek, found it impossible. He had to escape, and the only way out was through the broken windshield.

             
Clearing the glass with his gloved hand, Corovich climbed through to the hood. Most of it was under water, with chunks of broken ice piled around it. Across the frozen creek’s surface, Corovich could see the gentle slope of the opposite bank.

             
Pulling himself onto the ice, he felt some relief that it was thick enough to support his weight. He tried to take hold of the manic shivering racking his body. He had to get to the convoy if he was to survive. Belly-crawling across the frozen creek, his waterlogged trousers and coat began to solidify in the freezing temperatures.

As he reached the opposite bank, nausea dug its fingers into him, but he took deep breaths and staved it off. Standing up, Corovich found it hard to focus on anything. The world vibrated like a drum roll, and sounded very near to one, too. He reached for his gashed forehead, but instead found a cold slick. The wound had frozen in the sub Arctic night.

Corovich glanced back at the crashed 6x6. The cab was half submerged, the creek frozen around it. The rear tires leaned against the wall of the ravine, while the frame was bent at the midpoint. The truck was a total loss.

             
Stumbling up the gentle slope of the bank, Corovich held his head and stopped at a birch tree. Leaning against it, he searched the woods ahead for the convoy. Though he faced the direction in which he saw the headlights, there was nothing but empty woods. He took a few more steps, stopped, and leaned against another tree. He wished he hadn’t thrown the radio from the window. He wished he hadn’t been so careless navigating the woods. He even wished he hadn’t been the one to spot the plane up in the trees. That way, Barkov never would have sent him up to see if the pilot was still inside, thereby preventing his fall, his injury and his subsequent promotion.

             
Corovich’s eyes garnered some measure of focus, and it was then that he again saw the headlights. They were still small, yet their placement
in front of
the nearby pine trees was puzzling. A second pair emerged, followed by a third and fourth. All side-by-side, all masked by Corovich’s blurry eyes. He squinted, tried to understand what he was seeing.

             
“Hello,” he cried out in desperation. “It’s Corovich.” He waved his hands over his head, but then collapsed to the snow and vomited. On his hands and knees, he looked up toward the lights. They were moving this time, he was sure of it.