Chapter Eighteen.

A little way downriver of the small settlement of Weilandovka, and well past the place where they had fouled the starboard propeller in the fishing net; the Angara gently curved to the left. As TK12 rounded the slight bend, Vadim spotted a boat heading towards them at something like a kilometre distant. Suddenly, as the crew of the approaching boat saw the cutter, they swung their boat around. White water boiled from her stern as the engine was opened up. Why should they be so keen to avoid the cutter? Vadim called the alert. Laurente poked his head up out of the engine room hatch.

'For fucks sake; what's the matter now?'

Vadim nodded in the direction of the fleeing boat.

'I think we've found ourselves some opium smugglers. D'you feel like being "The Master" again?'

Laurente peered downriver through the binoculars and laughed.

'It's an old American Chris-Craft, nine-metre motor boat. She'll do about twenty-five knots flat-out if her engine is still OK. I wonder where the fuck they found her?'

He moved over to the controls, and stuck his eternal Machorka cigarette between his lips. Glancing back to where Karyn and the rest were sunning themselves on the torpedoes; he said to Vadim...

'Better get them into the pilot house, and have Vassili swing "Dushka" round. If these svolochi are Mongolians; there are likely to be a few bullets flying about.'

Vadim nodded. If the boat was, indeed crewed by Mongolians, and they were opium smugglers; they would not surrender. Being caught opium smuggling was a gold-plated, guaranteed, one-way ticket to Kolyma... "The White Crematorium." The people of the Soviet Union fear Kolyma more than any other region of the Gulag Empire. The common phrase whispered, and feared by everyone, is... "Kolyma oznachayet smert"... "Kolyma means death."

Laurente pushed the throttle levers forward, as Karyn and her companions squeezed into the pilot cabin. Vassili was already standing in the aft hatch swinging the DShK round on its mount. They heard the metallic clatter as he pulled the charging handle back. TK12 began lifting her bow as the speed built up. Laurente laughed;

'They're in for a bad day. We'll catch them within a kilometre.'

He pushed the throttle levers all the way forward; the engines' note rose to a crackling snarl that rolled back and forth across the river; and TK12 came up onto her hull planing step. The knot meter wound up swiftly to indicate forty knots... forty-five knots... fifty knots. The Chris-Craft motor boat was growing larger by the second. Vadim leaned out of the forward hatch and grasped the cranking handle of the siren mounted on the port roof shield. He cranked the handle round, and the siren began to emit its ascending wail that quickly turned into a banshee howl, echoing out across the water. A figure appeared in the stern of the fleeing boat. It quickly raised something black that began to emit puffs of smoke and gouting, stabbing flame. Laurente shouted,

'He's letting go with a fucking sub-machine gun... everybody down!'

As they all ducked, a stream of little white splashes stitched across the surface of the Angara, ahead of them. Out of range! But closing fast. A slight bend to the left was approaching. Laurente swung TK12 towards the right bank as the motor boat ahead began to heel over into the turn. Vassili now had a clear target, unobstructed by TK12's superstructure. He pressed the dual triggers. The vicious, tearing-calico sound of the DShK rolled and echoed across the water. The warning burst ploughed a fountain of spray a metre-or-so ahead of the motor boat. Another burst of gunfire came from the figure in the stern. Vadim shouted up to Vassili.

'Ok, He wants to play... Hit him!'

The next burst from the DShK stitched across the port gunwale of the Chris-Craft. Bits of the cabin showered into the air as the rounds hacked into the mahogany decks. The boat veered across the Angara and rammed the far bank. Three figures leapt onto the bank and ran for the forest. They had made, perhaps, thirty metres, when Vadim spotted a white flash in the long grasses. He shouted after the running figures...

"Privet! Ostorozhno".... ' Hey! Look out!'

As the huge, white dog-wolf leapt at the first man and snapped its jaws around his head. The crunch of his skull being crushed was plainly heard; even from that distance. His two companions were pulled down by the rest of the pack. Their screams echoed across the waters as they were torn to shreds. Laurente stared at the carnage. His face was white. He muttered,

"Chert voz'mi! ...U nikh ne bylo shansov!"…'Holy Fuck!... They didn't stand a chance.'

Vadim nodded;

'Yes; did you see the way that big white svoloch crushed his head as though it was an egg-shell? He didn't stand a hope in hell's chance; but, at least it was quick... unlike his pals.'

Laurente nodded.

'I suppose we'd better check their old tub out to see why they were running. They obviously got the shits up when they saw us.'

Calling back for everyone to stay inside; and for Vassili to train the DShK on the wolf pack as they fought over the remains of the three men; he eased the throttles back to idle, and, as TK12 came down off her planing step; steered for the motionless motor boat. As they came alongside, he eased the gear selectors into reverse, so that the props would counter the river flow. Vadim jumped onto the Chris-Craft's splintered deck and loosely tied her off to the cutter's mooring bitt on the forward deck.

Drawing his Tokarev, he warily approached the cabin. The cockpit was empty. He approached the below-decks cabin door. All was silent. Bracing himself, he kicked the door open. The cabin was deserted... and crammed with oiled-paper packages from floor to ceiling. He slit one open with his clasp knife. It contained a solid block of a hard, black substance... pure opium cake! At a rough guess, there must be at least five hundred packages in the cabin; each one weighing about two kilos.

Vadim shook his head in disbelief. No wonder they were so keen to get away. Was this it?... Or was there more? Cautiously, he checked the remainder of the boat. Every feasible locker, spare space; nook and cranny was stuffed full of the same oiled-paper packages. In total, Vadim reckoned that the boat carried something approaching fifteen hundred kilos of pure opium paste... enough to get every living soul in the Irkutsk Oblast continuously chasing the dragon for at least three months.

What the hell were they supposed to do with it? If they sank the boat with its narcotic cargo, the opium would dissolve in the water, and every fish and creature that came for water would probably end up stupefied as far downstream as the Yeneisi. The only real option was to burn it all.

He came back up into the cockpit, and called for Laurente to join him.

As Laurente jumped down into the cockpit of the motor boat, his jaw dropped at the sight of the packages crammed into the cabin. He glanced at Vadim.

'Is this what I think it is?'

Vadim nodded.

'Yes; about fifteen hundred kilos of the stuff. How do we burn the boat without polluting the whole bloody Angara right down to the Yenisei?'

Laurente grinned.

'No problem. This old tub's fuel tanks are under the cabin floor, with an inspection hatch right here under our feet. If I punch some holes into the lower part of the aft tank, the fuel will flood the keel. A quick pop with the flare pistol down through the hatch, and the whole lot will go sky-high. She runs on petrol, and once the fumes spread around below decks, she'll be a floating bomb.'

Vadim looked warily at him. This sounded bloody dangerous. They would need to be well away from the motor boat when the flare was fired. An explosion of the magnitude that Laurente was anticipating, would, at the very least, engulf the motor boat in a great, burgeoning ball of flame; not to mention the likelihood of a vicious shower of flying mahogany splinters. Everyone on TK12 would have to be in the pilot house... except for the one who would fire the flare… and he would be in mortal danger from the flying splinters. Even though the G5 cutters were notorious for their weak armour, it was unlikely that flying mahogany splinters would penetrate the metal.

Vassili had been listening to the conversation and called down from his perch behind the DShK;

'Sounds bloody stupid to me. We've got a case of armour-piercing, red phosphorus incendiary rounds in the ammunition locker. I'll swap the ordinary rounds out of a belt, and we can use those. The tracer element lasts for about three seconds on impact, enough for about fifteen-hundred-metres range. We can stand off and blow her up in complete safety.'

Vadim looked at Laurente, and nodded.

'Sounds good to me. Any thoughts?'

Laurente shook his head, and turned to Vassili.

'If you stitch her along her length about half-a-metre above the waterline, the whole lot will go up; but make sure you don't aim too low. We want to burn her, not sink her.'

Vassili gave him a withering look.

"Bez shutok?"... 'No kidding? You think I'm a "chajnik"... a beginner?'

Muttering to himself, he disappeared into the pilot house. Vadim grinned;

'Seems like you've upset him now; you old svoloch.'

Laurente merely grinned. He knew that Vassili would now make absolutely certain that the destruction of the motor boat and its illicit cargo would be textbook perfect. He caught the large screwdriver that Vadim tossed to him, and shoved his head and shoulders down through the inspection hatch. Several metallic thumps echoed through the hull of the motor boat and a strong smell of petrol began to drift up into the cockpit. Laurente emerged from the inspection hatch. His eyes were watering from the fumes gathering below deck. He jumped back onto the hull of TK12. Rubbing his eyes, he laughed.

'Hundred-octane; three-quarters of a tank. It's pissing out down there. She'll go up like an "Ivan Kupalo" bonfire!

Vadim smiled. He hadn't heard that expression for a while. In the Orthodox countries, people celebrated the Holiday of St. John the Baptist. In Russia, this holiday was called Ivan Kupalo. Everything in the holiday related to water. In the past, boys and girls used to swim in rivers until late at night. They burned fires, and, taking each-other's hands, jumped over the fires. If, after the jump they still held their hands together, it was considered to be a good sign meaning that their wedding was close.

His thought was interrupted by the clattering sound of Vassili feeding a belt of the red and violet-tipped incendiary rounds into the belt feed unit bolted to the left-hand side of the receiver of the big weapon. He finished threading the ammunition belt around the circular feed unit and closed the top cover. He pulled the charging handle back; released it, and turned to Vadim;

'OK, Boss; I'm ready. Let's do it. I've been waiting to see what these "bangers" will do.'

Laurente was already forward, casting off. Vadim squeezed back down into the pilot house and waited, while Laurente came in through the centre top hatch. Turning to Karyn, Anton, and Sacha, he spoke.

'We're going to burn the motor boat. She's stuffed full of pure opium cakes. I'm going to take up position in mid-river, and Vassili will plaster her with incendiaries. When he opens up with "Dushka," I want you all down below window height. She's full of petrol fumes and will go up like a bomb. We'll probably get showered with flying mahogany splinters.'

He fed in the throttles and spun the wheel to port. The engines' burbling changed to a deep rumble as TK12 moved out into the middle of the river. She completed a wide arc and came about, some sixty metres up-river from the Chris-Craft over on the starboard bank. Laurente eased the throttles through neutral; pulled the gear-changers to "Astern," and edged the throttles open to hold the cutter steady in the current. As she steadied; suddenly, their ears were deafened by the dreadful, tearing sound of the DShK opening up as Vassili began pumping the incendiary rounds into the motor boat. A line of large gaping holes was torn into her port side as the rounds struck. Brilliant white flashes could be seen deep within the dark bowels of her hull as the incendiary rounds began to detonate.

For a few moments, nothing happened... then, with a gargantuan "Whumph" the petrol fumes ignited. Moments later the fuel tanks full of vapour exploded, and the whole upper decking was torn from the hull, lifting into the air on a huge, burgeoning fireball that rolled upwards and outwards from the stricken vessel. The shock wave and heat from the blast swept out across the Angara and rocked TK12; followed almost simultaneously by a hail of whining mahogany splinters that squeaked and scraped off her curved deck plates. Laurente shouted back to Vassili,

'Are you OK, son?'

Vassili shouted back;

'Yeah, I ducked... and just as well. There's a bloody great splinter jammed into "Dushka." If that had hit me... Goodnight comrades! Did you see that old tub go? "Svyatoy yebat!"... Holy Fuck!'

Laurente laughed.

'Just like I said she would. That's a hell of a lot of chasing the dragon that you've just fucked up. We'll have to start calling you St George Vassili on account of the number of dragons you've just slain.'

Vadim was watching the column of sweetish blue smoke that was billowing out of the burning hull. The others were staring across the water at the scene of utter devastation. The grass on the edges of the bank was on fire, and the wolf pack had vanished into the forest. He took over the controls; shoved the gear selectors into "Ahead" and pushed the throttle levers forward. Glancing out to starboard at the thick veil of blue smoke that was drifting towards them; he spoke, swiftly.

'Close the top hatches, and let's get the hell out of here. If that smoke catches us, we'll all be as high as kites by the time we reach Sogra and the dropping-off point.'

As the hatches slammed; he shoved the throttle levers hard forward; the deep rumble of the engines changed to a raucous snarl as the props churned the water white around TK12's stern, and her bow began to lift as she picked up speed. The next fun would be the Shamanka rapids... now little more than a couple of kilometres ahead. The little island at the mouth of the rapids was coming up fast. Vadim eased the throttles back, and TK12 gently lowered her bow into the river.

There! Just beyond the northern tip of the island... a dark patch surrounded by tumbling white water... the entrance to the channel. With the engines on tick-over, Vadim guided TK12 carefully into the channel; allowing the flow of the river to drift them down through the rapids. On a couple of occasions, she scraped her keel on the shifting gravel shoals.

Out on the right bank, about three-quarters of the way through the rapids was an Evenki settlement. The cone-shaped dwellings made of tree bark and reindeer skins thrust up into the skies. Karyn though how much they resembled American Indian Tepees. A group of Evenki children were scampering along the bank waving to the cutter. They were accompanied by a huge, blue-grey Siberian wolf that seemed to be their companion. So; a wolf could be tamed.

Vassili had mentioned that within Shamanic traditions, the wolf was universally considered a carrier of feminine principles, most notably the nurturing and caring qualities so characteristic of this animal. These Evenki children would never have to fear bears or lynx with a guardian such as this. She was still musing on this as Vadim opened up the engines for the last fifty-kilometre run down to Sogra.

The settlement at Sogra was little more than a collection of wooden shacks inhabited by Evenki fishermen. As TK12 came alongside the rudimentary jetty on the north bank of the Angara, a solitary young soldier waiting on the crude jetty tossed a rope to Laurente who was standing on the forward curved deck of the cutter waiting to moor her. The mooring posts on the jetty were no more than slender spruce tree trunks driven down into the riverbed. They would probably never hold the weight of TK12, and Vadim decided to keep the engines ticking over with the gear selectors "Astern"... keeping the propellers turning to counteract the flow of the river.

Laurente secured the rope to the forward mooring bitt, and the young soldier heaved the cutter into the jetty. Vadim turned to Karyn and Sacha.

'End of the line. I hope it hasn't been too uncomfortable... and it's been quite a trip! It isn't always this entertaining, you know.'

Karyn smiled.

'It's been quite an eye-opener. You certainly can't say you have a boring life, if this was anything to go by. I am so sorry about Burian; if you hadn't had to make this trip, he might still be alive.'

Vadim shrugged.

'You never can tell. He might have bought it on any one of our trips, especially when we go chasing Mongol Opium smugglers. When your number's up, that's it.'

Karyn nodded.

'True enough. We don't know what might be waiting for us out there...'

She glanced out to the north;

'Well we'd better get moving. Thanks for the ride, Vadim. Take care; Do svidan'ya.'

As she was helped up onto the jetty by Sacha, she turned again.

'Do svidan'ya, Laurente; Do svidan'ya, Vassili. Take care on your way back to base. Spasiba.'

With a final wave; Laurente cast off, and disappeared into the forward hatch as Vadim pushed the throttle levers forward, and, with the familiar deep rumble from her engines, TK12 eased out into the Angara and set her bow for home.

The young soldier didn't seem at all concerned about being in the presence to two officers wearing the ominous blue-topped, red-banded NKVD Furashky; but then; why should he? He was stationed here in this God-forsaken place, and any intimated threat of exile to the frozen wastes certainly cut no ice with him. He cheerfully led the party to where his transport was parked. As they stepped out to the one and only track from the settlement, they were faced with one of the most implausible vehicles they had ever seen. It was basically, a long-wheelbase ZIS 5 truck with a towering cylinder attached to either side of the rear of the cab. Anton turned to the young soldier.

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'What the hell are they for?'

The young soldier grinned.

'She's a gas generator truck. She's designed to run on firewood or coal fuel. Petrol isn't that plentiful up here, so we use these. We've run a few modifications in the workshops to make her a bit more efficient, but preparation of the system for starting the engine can still take half-an-hour or more. The fuel used to be bulky and difficult to handle, and frequent feeding of fuel was often required. This used to limit the time the engine could run unattended. Cleaning out the burners of residues such as ashes, soot, and tarry crap was time-consuming and dirty; so we now use charcoal. This gives a much cleaner gas, and longer range.'

Anton scratched his head.

'How does the bloody thing work?'

The young soldier grinned again;

'You light the fire in the nearside gas generator, and after about five minutes, switch on the fan in the offside chamber. This forces the gas from the burning charcoal down into the two reservoir tanks under the cargo bed. Wood gas is flammable because of the carbon monoxide, hydrogen, and methane content. When the pressure gauge in the cab reads about eighty kilogrammes-per- square-centimetre, you start the engine in the same way as if it was running on petrol. Flat out, she'll do about fifty Km/h. One charge of charcoal is sufficient for about eighty kilometres. We carry spare charcoal in the locker between the cylinders.'

He laughed at Anton's incredulous expression.

'And, the best thing is, that once you get back to base; you forget all about the truck. Once it's cooled down, the burner cylinder is cleaned out and refilled by the poor svolochi who have dropped themselves in the shit during the day, and are on report!'

The ZIS smelled like a campfire. The young soldier helped Karyn up into the cab, while Anton and Sacha clambered over the tailboard into the flatbed. With a typically Russian clunk and grind, the young soldier crashed in the gears and moved away. Apart from the smell of the burning charcoal, the truck behaved like any other vehicle with an internal combustion engine on the twenty-five kilometre drive over the rough track that followed the north bank of the Angara, and led eventually, to the aerodrome at Kezhma. Only once, did the track veer away from the river, at the point where it forged north for about three kilometres, then turned east, and then south, as it negotiated a ford on the bridge-less Terya tributary. The aerodrome was situated east of the tiny settlement of Verkhnyaya Kezhma.

The ZIS rumbled into Kezhma proper; a small settlement with one main street, which was merely a continuation of the track; except that it had been rolled flatter and wider by the military vehicles that came and went from the aerodrome. The truck turned right at a crossroads and headed north for about two kilometres; turning into the aerodrome, past a sprinkling of concrete buildings and what appeared to be a dilapidated hangar. Waiting on the long concrete runway was a solitary, single-engined biplane; painted white, with the red star on its fuselage, shining brightly in the late summer sun.

The young soldier swung the truck off the unpaved track and bumped across the sparse grass of the aerodrome, to grind to a halt outside a rudimentary control tower that resembled an ordinary wooden bungalow with oversize windows. A large, middle-aged man, wearing a battered, blue-banded, and piped Air Force Furashka, and the Blue-piped collar tabs of a "Polkovnik Aviatsii"... a Lieutenant Colonel, came out to greet them. Anton and Sacha, dressed as they were in the GUGB Praporshchik uniforms; snapped to attention, and saluted. The man responded with a slovenly salute, and burst out laughing.

"Vy zakonchili s etim der'mom?"... 'Have you finished with that shit? We don't stand on ceremony here, Comrades. Come and have a drink!'

Anton was suddenly suspicious of this big Lieutenant Colonel. Was this some sort of political trap he was setting with this undisciplined, jovial attitude? It must be. No-one in their right mind behaved like this with anyone with the slightest influence in the NKVD... and the GUGB had the most influence of all. With an impassive tone in his voice, he said...

"Vy budete nesti otvetstvennost' za to, chto vy skazali"... 'You'll be held accountable for what you said.'

The big Lieutenant Colonel laughed even louder.

"Da nu!"... 'You don't say! "Rasskazhite eto komu-to, kto zabotitsya"... Tell it to someone who cares. What will you do? Report me and send me to Siberia?'

Anton looked at him. Sacha said nothing; Karyn struggled to keep a straight face. For a while, nothing was said, and then Anton shrugged, and said, in his best NKVD tone...

'There are worse places than this, Comrade Polkovnik.'

The Lieutenant Colonel laughed again.

'You think so? Just wait until the temperature drops to below minus fifty. Have you ever tried pissing an icicle? Now, stop being such a "shíshka"... a big shot, and come and have a drink before we pack you off to Vanavara.'

In the little wooden control tower, the pilot was waiting. The Lieutenant Colonel brought out a bottle of Siberian vodka and five charka glasses. He sloshed the vodka into the glasses and handed them around. The pilot refused.

'Thanks, but no thanks, Grigory. You know what they say: "Eight hours between bottle and throttle"... and that bloody patch they call an airstrip at Vanavara is damned short for my kite.'

Anton looked askance. No mention of rank. How un-military could you get? The pilot grinned.

"Ne gruzís"... 'Don't take it so seriously. We don't have the time or the inclination to be hard-assed, up here. The kite you'll be travelling in is an English De Havilland Fox Moth that they sent us after they had confiscated it from some Grand Duke up in Leningrad's Kresty Prison, just before they hauled him away to the Toksovo execution grounds near the Rzhevsky artillery range, and gave him a 7·62mm, lead headache pill for his troubles. It's not a bad little kite, with its internal cabin. The only problem is... as with all those De Havilland types... I'm in an open cockpit while you get all the warmth from the engine!'

Having noted down the compass headings from the large, seemingly featureless map spread out on the Lieutenant Colonel's table; the pilot scribbled some figures into his notebook, and moved towards the door. As he pulled on his flying helmet, he turned, and spoke to the Lieutenant-Colonel;

'Come on, Grigory; you can swing her over for me. The exercise will do you good, and get some of that vodka-gut off you. We can't expect our passengers to do it.'

The Lieutenant Colonel snorted.

'Where's that lazy svoloch, Treshchev? He's the ground mechanic around here, not me.'

The pilot laughed.

'You sent him down to the trading post at Luchihka to get some flouncy lace frillies for your mistress, Bella Markevich, you randy old goat. Stop moaning and let's get the kite started.'

Anton and Sacha were struggling to keep a sombre, disproving, GUGB-type expression on their faces. Karyn merely raised an eyebrow. The Lieutenant Colonel at least had the propriety to look embarrassed. He shouldered out of the little office and strode across the grass towards the aeroplane. The pilot and his passengers followed; smiling at the string of muttered profanities that floated back in the crisp, morning air.

The Fox Moth was a pretty little aeroplane, in spite of its military disguise. The pilot opened the cabin door... which was much akin to that which would be found fitted to a motor car; even down to the chromed door handle... and helped Karyn up onto the non-slip walkway at the wing root. The cabin was distinctly "chummy." There were three seats; a single bucket type at the front of the cabin, facing aft; and a double bench seat facing forward, the seat cushion of which, was raked steeply at the front. The seats and interior cabin panels were upholstered in English, hand-stitched, burgundy leather. Settling herself in the aft-facing bucket seat, she strapped herself in. Anton and Sacha squeezed into the cramped cabin, and strapped themselves into the bench seat. Their luggage... such as it was; was stowed into the fuselage locker behind the pilot's cockpit.

The Lieutenant Colonel waited by the propeller; having "tickled" the plunger on the carburettor until fuel ran out from the manifold vent under the engine; then closed, and secured the starboard engine cowling. He gave a "Thumbs up" to the pilot, who closed, and locked the cabin door and clambered into the cockpit. He opened an oval, glazed hatch in the bulkhead behind Anton and Sacha's heads, and called down;

'Everyone strapped in? OK; here we go.'

He closed the hatch, and his now-muffled voice called out...

'OK, Grigory. Switches off, suck in four.'

The Lieutenant Colonel's voice floated back faintly...

'Job tvojemadj!... Biggles Flies Again!'

The thin mechanical sound of him swinging the propeller four times to prime the carburettor penetrated the cabin, then, there was a short pause before the pilot's voice came again...

'Switches on... Contact!'

The Lieutenant Colonel swung the propeller again, and the engine burst into life. He moved around the front of the aeroplane and pulled the chocks out. The vibration and exhaust note increased, as the pilot opened the throttle, and the bi-plane began to move. As it bumped across the grass, Anton grinned.

'Say what you like about the English, but they make bloody good engines. One of ours would never start that smoothly.'

He glanced out of the cabin window, and raised his hand to the Lieutenant Colonel, who returned the wave, then turned back towards his little office and his vodka bottle, as the bi-plane bumped up onto the concrete of the runway. The pilot paused, while he went through his final checks, then, satisfied with the instrument readings; opened the throttle, pushed the lever on the starboard side of the cockpit fully forwards to the unlocked end of its quadrant to extend the leading edge slats, which allowed the Fox Moth to take off and land in a shorter distance; and began to roll. The slight thumps as the wheels crossed the concrete joints increased their regularity... the tail came up, and the Fox Moth lifted off; climbing steadily into the east, and the morning sun.

The flying distance to Vanavara of a little over one-hundred-and-ninety kilometres would take almost one-and-a-quarter hours. The pilot, Lejtenant Nikolai Komarovski retracted the leading edge slats, and kept the spring loaded, wind pressure-driven airspeed indicator mounted on the Port front Interplane Strut to an indicated eighty miles-per-hour. Slowly, the biplane climbed to five thousand feet indicated. He was enjoying himself. This was a beautiful little aeroplane to fly... especially on a morning like this, once you became used to the instruments being calibrated in Imperial measurements rather than metric, and made allowance for the clever design of the differential aileron control setup.

The ailerons, which were only fitted to the lower wings on a Fox Moth were operated by an externally mounted circular bell crank, which lay flush with the lower wing's fabric undersurface covering. The circular bell crank was rotated by metal cables and chains from the cockpit's control columns, and had the externally mounted aileron pushrod attached at a point forty-five degrees outboard and forward of the bell crank's centre, when the ailerons were both at their neutral position. This resulted in an aileron control system operating with barely any travel down at all on the wing on the outside of the turn, while the aileron on the inside travelled a large amount upwards to counter-act adverse yaw.

This gave the Fox Moth a docile, and forgiving character in normal flight; although, control movements required a positive and sure hand as there was a slowness to respond to control inputs. That aside; if you were a competent pilot, she was a joy to fly, compared with the agricultural Polikarpov U-2; whose only saving grace was that its great longitudinal stability made it virtually impossible to spin out in flight.

Nikolai Komarovski had been given this Fox Moth to fly when he was first posted to Kezhma as an Air Regiment Liaison pilot of the 2nd Red Banner Army, which had only been formed in the July of this year. He hadn't been exactly overjoyed at the prospect of being an aerial taxi-driver stooging around Siberia ferrying fat Commissars from one shithole to another. When his posting orders came through, at the Military Air College in Orenburg; he almost cried. He had imagined that he would become one of the dashing IAP (Fighter Aviation Regiment) pilots, resplendent in his blue uniform with the broad, blue-piped collar tabs and blue-banded and piped Furashka. With a leather flying jacket casually pulled on, it was almost guaranteed to get the girls.

When he finally arrived at Kezhma, and was introduced to the Fox Moth, his outlook brightened considerably. Maybe she wasn't as dashing as a Polikarpov I-16 fighter... but she was a little beauty. The English designer, Geoffrey de Havilland had conceived a masterpiece. The De Havilland Gipsy III, 120 hp engine was as sweet as a sewing machine, and totally reliable. This was flying as it was meant to be!... And anyway, there were plenty of girls in Kezhma to impress!

He glanced at the big, aperiodic compass mounted below the instrument panel, and between his knees. The pointer was steady as a rock on his chosen heading. English design and craftsmanship again! The reason they were so reliable was due to their sophisticated features: strong bar magnets, small inertia, and heavy alcohol damping, which made them settle onto a true course after a turn without any overcompensation. He checked the time on the aircraft clock. He had been flying for almost an hour. Out to the starboard side; snaking sinuously through the unbroken green canopy of the taiga, he could just make out the Podkammenaya Tungska ... the Lower Stony Tunguska River. Time to turn onto his final heading.

Gently easing the control column to port, and applying a little left rudder, Komarovski banked the Fox Moth onto heading three-forty, north-by-north west. The compass pointer swung smoothly, and settled. On this heading he would cross the Podkammenaya Tungska some five kilometres to the west of Vanavara, then turn east onto the circuit for the airstrip. The grass landing strip was cut for some three kilometres north-east into the taiga, and he wanted to land north-east to south-west to avoid any chance of running out of space and going into the forest. The Fox Moth's landing speed was forty to forty-five miles per hour, and it wasn't equipped with brakes!

As he levelled off, Komarovski caught a glimpse of the thin line cutting through the endless green taiga that was the course of the "Zimnik" from the settlement of Tetere in the south, to the ford across from Vanavara. The "Zimnik," or "Winter road" was made in the late autumn once the rivers, lakes, and bogs froze and the ice was thick enough to take the weight of heavy trucks. This thickness would be at least thirty centimetres. The road was used throughout the winter months and only abandoned in the spring, when the ice on the rivers and lakes became dangerously thin, and the melting snow made the land boggy. Many of Siberia’s more isolated villages, particularly to the north of the Angara, depended on winter roads that provided them with a vital lifeline enabling supplies to be brought in from the outside world.

He glanced down into the cabin through the oval, brass-bound, glass hatch in the centre of the instrument panel. His passengers seemed happy enough in the cramped cabin, from what he could see... which were only the tops of the two men's heads... and a shapely pair of female legs. He smiled. Like all men, he had a weakness for a pretty girl; especially if she was a "blondinka"... a blonde. He forced his thoughts and attention back to flying. Vanavara would be coming up in less than fifteen minutes.

Komarovski peered ahead into the distance. Off to the right of his flight path, some five kilometres to the north-west, a vague haze rose into the chilly, morning air. It could only be chimney smoke from Vanavara; the muddy little shanty town lost in a sea of green forest. He glanced out to starboard. A few kilometres to the east the Stony Tunguska River... so called, because for much of its course, it flowed under pebble fields without open water; curved sharply towards him. It was time to begin his descent.

Easing the control column forwards, he watched the needle of the altimeter slowly begin to unwind. The sink rate of the Fox Moth was lethargic. The amount of lift from her bi-plane wings was such, that she was reluctant to descend, and floated obstinately on the still morning air. He would need to come in over the river at eight hundred feet indicated, in preparation for turning into the east onto the down leg of the Vanavara aerodrome circuit, and continue losing height for a distance of some five kilometres, until he was down to five hundred feet indicated, and committed to his turning point.

Here, he would turn into the south at the threshold of the circuit base leg, ready for final approach. He glanced across the instruments. Everything OK. Reaching down to the cockpit wall beside his left knee; he grasped, and unclipped the flare pistol from its mountings. The Fox Moth wasn't equipped with a radio, and he would need to fire a green flare as he flew the down leg to notify the Vanavara controller of his intention to land.

With the altimeter needle flickering over the eight-hundred-feet mark; Komarovski brought the Fox Moth neatly in over the river, and gently banked round into the east. The muddy lattice of streets and lanes of the little settlement of Vanavara, sprinkled with brightly painted, turf-roofed houses, drifted below as he lined the nose of the aeroplane up with the landing strip... a thin, paler green swathe cut into the darker blueish-green of the surrounding taiga, some five kilometres ahead. Opening the oval hatch in the instrument panel, he called down into the cabin...

'We'll be landing in a few minutes. Make sure your seat harnesses are tight. When I touch down, she'll probably bounce a few times.'

The buildings of Vanavara aerodrome were clustered at the western end of the landing strip. As he approached the western threshold; Komarovski cocked the flare pistol and held it out over the starboard side of the cockpit. The long, wooden building with the little control cabin perched half-way along the ridge of its roof came level with the starboard wing tip. He squeezed the trigger, and with a loud "plop," the flare arched up, and away; a bright green pyrotechnic star against the soft blue of the morning sky.

Dropping the flare pistol onto his lap, he changed hands on the control column, and stowed the pistol back into its mounting clips. Following the northern tree line, he eased back on the control column and fed in a little more throttle to gain height, as the end of the landing strip merged into the taiga. A little right rudder and aileron, and the Fox Moth gently banked round in a wide circle. As Komarovski lined up for his final approach, he saw a green light flash from a window of the control cabin. Clear to Land!

Holding her straight and level, with both needles of the big turn and slip indicator below the oval hatch in the instrument panel, centred; he began to ease back on the throttle lever; watching the airspeed indicator quadrant out of the corner of his eye. The indicator arrow was creeping down the scale as the wind pressure on the spring-loaded wind-brake of the quadrant lessened. Fifty miles-per-hour indicated. Time to unlock the leading edge slats. He pushed the lever all the way forward. It was almost as if he had applied a brake. The indicator arrow dropped almost instantaneously to forty-five miles-per-hour, and the aeroplane began to float gently down to earth.

Komarovski came in over the trees at an indicated fifty feet. He closed the throttle, keeping the wings level. The aeroplane was going ludicrously slowly. At the last moment, he felt her begin to stall, and pulled the control column back the last few centimetres. At this point, the nose gently reared up and he almost managed to pull off a three-point landing; but, the wheels touched the grass a few moments too soon and the Fox Moth settled after a series of gentle bounces. He fed in coarse rudder to keep the aeroplane running straight, but there was no time for anything to get seriously out of hand; for in less than a minute the Fox Moth ran out of momentum and stopped.

Leaving the engine ticking over; Komarovski jumped down from the cockpit and shoved a pair of chocks under the wheels. He then opened the cabin doors for his passengers to alight. As Karyn emerged onto the wing root walkway, he held out his hand to guide her to the trailing edge, and putting his hands around her waist; lifted her down onto the grass. Anton and Sacha emerged stiffly from the other door; jumped onto the grass and began stamping their feet to try and get some circulation back into their cramped legs. Meanwhile; Komarovski opened the luggage hatch behind the cockpit and lifted out their possessions. His expression changed as he pulled out the ominous brown leather briefcase embossed with the Soviet star above a hammer and sickle. He glanced at Karyn and raised an eyebrow.

Anything else was interrupted by the sound of the powerful engine of an approaching vehicle. Trundling across the field was a strange- looking tracked vehicle that resembled a flat-nosed, portly lorry fitted with a tarpaulin awning over its high-board, cargo rear bed. It skidded to a standstill beside them, rocking on its suspension. The driver's door banged open and a large "Voyentekhnik"... an Air Force Technical Lieutenant with a bristling ginger moustache and beard, and a cheerful face emerged. With a great, booming voice, he welcomed them to Vanavara. The sight of Anton and Sacha's blue-topped, red-banded NKVD Furashky didn't seem to have any effect on him whatsoever. He thrust out his hand to Anton.

'Welcome, Comrade, my name is Cheslav Istomin; "Voyentekhnik," by God's Good Grace in the Heroic Workers-Peasants Red Army Air Force detachment, here, in sunny Siberia.'

He waved a hand at the strange vehicle.

'Your taxi. It's somewhat basic, but the lady can travel in the cab, and there are benches at the back. I can get you as far as Okhchen’s hut in this, but then I'm afraid you'll have to haggle with the locals for horses, or whatever.'

Anton studied the strange vehicle intently. Turning to Istomin, he asked,

'What the hell is it?'

Istomin smiled.

'This example of cunning Proletariat ingenuity is an STZ-5 "Stalingradec" Artillery Tractor built at the Stalingrad tractor factory. Its engine is a straight, four-cylinder, 7460cc gasoline-kerosene engine, developing fifty-two horsepower, driving through a five-speed gearbox with two cross-country drives. It does twenty-two Km/h cross-country, and can ford eighty centimetres of water, overcome an obstacle of sixty centimetres, and span a trench of one metre. Just what we need for where I have to take you!'

Anton scratched his ear.

'It looks a bit too bloody agricultural to me.'

Istomin laughed;

'Exactly; Comrade. That's just what it is. It's based on the SHTZ-NATI agricultural tractor built in the same factory; but this one is almost civilised... the original only had a one seat cab, with a. slanted windscreen and open sides, and was intended for ploughing with four, and five-bladed ploughs on the collectives. We use this old girl for going out into the taiga. We are on the permafrost belt here, and the only tracks are the "Zimniki"...the "Winter roads" which thaw out to a depth of about thirty centimetres in the spring and autumn muddy seasons. They present the most difficult obstacles, leaving almost no means of transport to many areas. That's why you will need horses to get anywhere near the Southern swamp. An ordinary truck would be bogged down within a few kilometres of starting out from here.'

He laughed again.

'Don't look so worried. I've taken this old girl up the "Tropa Kulika"... the Kulik route as far as Okhchen’s hut without any problems.'

He saw the puzzled expression on Anton's face, and grinned.

'You don't know about Okhchen? Let me explain. The taiga is sprinkled with Evenki settlements and a few winter shelters. Okhchen was a very rich Evenki herdsman who owned several hundred reindeer. He and Liuchetkan, another herdsman, were the guides of Kulik's first expedition in 1927. When they reached the site of the forest devastation, they were convinced that it was "surely due to Agdy anger," and flatly refused to accompany the expedition any farther. Kulik had no alternative but to return to Vanavara and make a second trek with new guides. This time, Okhchen looked after Kulik's packhorses and lent him reindeer to complete the last leg of his second attempt. The hut was virtually a tumbledown last time I was up there, but still used as a reference point... there are precious few out there in the taiga.'

He shrugged.

'No matter; it's just local folklore. Let's get you over to the barracks so that you can get out of those uniforms and into some sensible clothing for your expedition.'

He helped Karyn up into the cab of the tractor, and threw the luggage up to Anton and Sacha who had already climbed into the back. As he clambered into the driving seat, the pilot of the Fox Moth was already taxiing out for his take-off. They watched, as Nikolai Komarovski was given the green light from the control cabin, and pushed the throttle lever forward. The Fox Moth surged forward down the green landing strip. Her tail came up within a hundred metres, and she lifted off like a pale dragonfly into the endless blue of the late summer skies.