Chapter Fifteen.

A little over four hundred kilometres east; Thirty-six year old Starshiy Inzhener-Lejtenant... Senior Lieutenant-technician Vadim Dolinski stood on the mole of the anchorage at Bratskoi in the company of Mladshyi Lejtenant Gozbezopasnosti... Junior Lieutenant of State Security, Maksim Lempitski of the Bratskoi NKVD Office, watching his crew laboriously winching out the first of the two, stern-launched 53-38U, fifty-three-point-three-centimetre torpedoes from the launch wells of his Tupolev G5 torpedo cutter. As his Starshiy Krasnoflotets... senior mechanic, Laurente Gura steadied the seven-metre-long weapon; a sudden gust of wind swung the nose of the suspended torpedo against the wall of the mole with a resounding clang.

Lempitski paled, and ducked involuntarily. Vadim Dolinski masked a swift grin. That almost made this swaggering, high-and-mighty, NKVD asshole shit his pants. Was he really so stupid as to imagine that they'd piss about with this "Tin-fish," armed with a two-hundred-and-sixty-five kilogramme, TNT warhead that was capable of demolishing everything within a five-hundred-metre radius if it accidentally detonated… without having first removed the contact fuze? Still, he'd better put on a show. He bawled down to Gura;

"Ty ne tol'ko chertovski beznadezhen, no yeshche i mertv; Mudak!"... 'You're not only fucking hopeless, but also fucking dead; asshole!'

His forty-two year old, senior mechanic, Laurente Gura glanced up, and mouthed...

"Otvali!"... "Fuck off!" to his commander. Fortunately, Lempitski didn't see it. Dolinski turned to him with an exasperated look;

"Ot negó kak ot kozlá moloká"... 'The guy's as useless as tits on a bull.'

Lempitski said nothing. He just glared at Gura. These bloody Navy types were too damned insubordinate and independent for his liking.

Tupolev G5 torpedo cutter; flotilla number TK12, was a nineteen-metre-long, streamlined, rip-resistant Duralumin alloy, stepped-planing-hulled vessel capable of a top speed of fifty-one knots. She belonged to the Baltic Fleet, but spent her days patrolling the mighty Yenisei River. She was, at present, based in the little town of Yeniseisk, some three-hundred-and-twenty kilometres north of Krasnoyarsk. When he had received his orders, Vadim Dolinski had suggested that they travel down the Yenisei, and collect their passengers at Krasnoyarsk. This request was refused. He would pick them up at Irkutsk, as ordered.

Vadim Dolinski was not impressed. This would be a trip of something like fourteen-hundred kilometres. It was eighty kilometres to to just get to the mouth of the Verkhnyaya Tunguska... the Upper Tunguska River; which, below its junction with the Ilim River, was more familiarly known as the Angara. Once clear of the Yenisei; they had about seven-hundred-and-twenty kilometres of treacherous, winding Angara… littered with islands; hidden sandbanks, and rapids; until they reached Bratskoi.

The boat had an extended range of, at most; four-hundred-and-ten kilometres if they kept to fifteen knots. He didn't relish navigating up the Angara... eight-hundred kilometres, with just a few settlements; no roads, big rapids; and the interminable forests which seemed to attract cloying mists. The biggest worry was, that at some stages, the river widened to several kilometres; dead calm; and reflected the sky with such perfection, in its shimmering, sapphire waters; that it was hard to tell where the sky met the horizon. In other places; the river banks ranged from one-hundred-metre-high cliff faces to subtle sloping hills; high plateaus, and rocky knolls; and the mists gathered rapidly; hovering about the lower trees of the unbroken carpet of Taiga forest blanketing the land. To navigate safely in daylight was hard enough; to run through the night... as they would need to do if they were to make Bratskoi within the time specified; was asking... no; was begging for trouble.

They would have to re-fuel somewhere on the first leg. He would have much preferred to take the armoured cutter that was also based at Yeniseisk. This was a MIG BK1125 "Bronekater"... a type universally known as "The River Tank." She was bigger, but had a shallower draught... only half-a-metre instead of the G5's one-and-a-quarter-metres draught. The trouble was; that although she had marginally better range; she was wider, heavier, and slower. She was also armed to the teeth, and less manoeuvrable in the narrow winding channels of the bloody Angara rapids.

So; with a resigned shrug; Vadim Dolinski accepted his orders and assembled his crew. Arrangements were made for the boat to re-fuel at Bogutchansk; about halfway to Bratskoi. That meant that they would be almost running on fresh air when they arrived at Bratskoi anchorage. To save weight, and thus, increase range; Dolinski had decided to sail with a skeleton crew. He would take his Chief mechanic; his Gunner/navigator, and his Torpedist; and leave the other three crew members to enjoy a few days leave. He would drop off the two torpedoes at Bratskoi. That would save two-thousand, four-hundred kilogrammes; extend their range, and let them increase their average speed. It was five hundred kilometres to Irkutsk from Bratskoi... almost beyond the limit of their operational range; and any fuel saved was a real bonus. The return trip would not be so bad; they would be running with the river flow.

He glanced at his service watch; almost nine o'clock. The first torpedo had been winched up onto the mole, and his twenty-three year old Torpedist, Burian Komarovski, was sitting astride the warhead screwing a blanking plug into the contact fuze pocket. Senior mechanic, Laurente Gura was easing the winch strop under the second torpedo; making ready to winch it out of its launch well in the stern. Junior Lieutenant of State Security, Maksim Lempitski of the Bratskoi NKVD had vanished. To his mind; what these Navy govniuki... shit-heads were doing, was just too bloody dangerous for anyone with the merest modicum of common sense.

The trip had been pretty uneventful, so far. They had made twenty-five knots for the eighty kilometres up the Yenisei to the mouth of the Angara, and then throttled the two GAM 850hp, V12 engines right back, until the boat was cruising along at about fifteen knots. They had made it to the little township... if that's what you could call it... of Bogutchansk; and fuelled up from the store of two-hundred-litre fuel drums brought by rail from Bratskoi via Tayshet to the railhead at the small coal-mining settlement at Tayezhnyy, thirty kilometres to the south; then transported by road to Bogutchansk, in preparation for their arrival.

The second leg, up to Bratskoi, was somewhat less boring. They sailed through the night, and just before dawn; well past Keima; and a little way upstream from the small settlement of Vladimirovka where the Angara turned sharply to the left; they fouled the starboard propeller on an abandoned fishing net. This mangled the coupling of the propeller shaft, and stalled the starboard engine. As the boat lost headway; the still-rotating port propeller skewed her to starboard; and she rammed the southern bank, running her prow into the soft mud. Laurente Gura disappeared down into the engine bay, cursing loudly. TK12 was stuck.

Vadim Dolinski moved the starboard engine gear selector to neutral, and eased the throttle lever of the port engine back to idle. At least; with the port propeller still turning, they wouldn't begin drifting back downstream if they did come unstuck. Vassili Levkova; the twenty-five-year-old, gunner/navigator slipped over the starboard side into the water, to untangle the starboard propeller; while a stream of profanities echoed up from the engine bay, punctuated by loud bangs and clangs, as Laurente Gura struggled to replace the sheared, and broken-up propeller shaft coupling. Vadim Dolinski and Burian Komarovski were lounging on the curved, forward decking; having a quiet smoke, and laughing at the eloquent obscenities drifting out across the placid waters. Suddenly, there came a cry of triumph...

'Got you, you little fucker!'

And the obstinate coupling came flying out of the hatch; to describe a graceful arc out over the port gunwale and disappear with a merry plop into the water. Five more minutes passed; again punctuated by various bangs and clangs; then Laurente Gura shoved his head out of the hatch. He shouted,

'OK, Boss; fire her up.'

Vadim Dolinski nodded, checked that Vassili Levkova was back on board; climbed into the pilot house, and pressed the starboard electric starter button. The engine whined and coughed; then burst into life. Dolinski eased the gear selector of the port engine into neutral; then pushed both levers into the "Astern" position. Easing the throttles forward; he spun the steering wheel to full starboard rudder, and increased the revs. With a disgusting sucking noise, TK12 came free from the cloying embrace of the soft river bank. Laurente Gura clambered out of the engine bay hatch, nursing a badly-skinned set of knuckles on his right hand. Dripping blood, he snatched at the first-aid kit. Wrapping a field dressing around his hand, he growled...

'The govniuk... the shit-head in the Marti factory in Leningrad, who fitted out this tub, must have thought he was still building bloody tractors. He must have used a fucking sledge-hammer to mate that coupling!'

The torpedist, Burian Komarovski laughed;

'What's up Lavi? Got a touch of spanner-rash?'

Laurente threw him a dirty look, brandished a large spanner in his good hand, and snarled...

'Nu vse, tebe pizda!'...'That's it, you're fuckin' dead!'

Vadim Dolinski broke in;

'Stop pissing about; it's almost five o'clock, and we've still got a hundred kilometres to sail. We'll sleep on the boat when we get to Bratskoi tonight.'

As the second torpedo was winched onto the wooden mole, Burian and Vassili were refuelling TK12 from an Army GAZ tanker that had been laid on by the District Political Officer. There was no Navy presence in Bratskoi; so, some vodka-fuelled, horse-trading had taken place. Vadim Dolinski glanced at his watch again; ten o'clock. Time flies when you're having fun! He called to Laurente who was in the pilot house, watching the fuel gauge.

'How much longer, Laurente?'

Over the din of the tanker's pumps, Laurente shouted back...

'She's three-quarters tanked; about ten more minutes.'

Vadim Dolinski sighed. That meant they wouldn't cast-off until about ten-thirty. If they kept to their most economical running speed... even without torpedoes, it would take about seventeen hours to reach Irkutsk. He needed to gain at least five hours... or run the upper Angara in darkness. He glanced at the searchlight on the roof of the pilot house; it would be about as much use as a matchstick in a coalmine. The upper Angara was notorious as being a navigator's nightmare, with shifting shoals, and rapids with only few narrow, deep channels. He shouted back to Laurente;

'What would be our range if we wound her up to thirty-five knots in the wide sections?'

He watched Laurente working the sum out on his fingers; his mouth moving silently as he calculated his answer. He looked up.

'We'd run dry at about three-hundred-and-ninety kilometres; She would be drinking juice at the rate of about one-hundred-and-thirty litres an hour... even without the weight of the Tin-fish.'

Vadim Dolinski turned to the tanker driver, and told him to off-load eight of the two-hundred-litre fuel drums from the flatbed behind the tanker's main tank. They would stow them in the empty torpedo wells and hand-pump the contents into TK12's fuel tanks, as, and when they were needed. Sixteen-hundred extra litres would give them a good safety margin; and, if they held at thirty-five knots for as long as possible; they could shave almost eight hours off their travelling time. This meant they could probably reach Irkutsk in daylight.

With the fuel drums lashed into the torpedo wells; Vadim Dolinski fired up TK12's engines. As Laurente was about to cast-off; Burian stuck his head down through the pilot house hatch; and shouted to Vadim over the burbling rumble of the two, big V12 engines.

'Hey Boss; I feel like a bit of a spare prick, now that my toys are off-loaded. Shall I stay here and keep an eye on them?'

Vadim Dolinski grinned, and replied;

'OK, Burian; we'll pick you up, and reload the Tin-fish some time tomorrow. Don't get too pissed; and don't screw too many "Blyadi" ... sluts.'

Burian gave a broad grin, and jumped up onto the mole. Laurente cast off, and Vadim eased both gear selectors into the "Astern" position. TK12 slipped away from the mole. Twenty metres out into the harbour pool; he pushed the selectors into "Ahead," and spun the wheel; opening the starboard throttle to turn her out into the channel. As her bow came round; he pushed the port throttle forward to the position of the starboard lever; then pushed them both up to the "quarte-ahead-both" mark on the throttle quadrant. TK12 settled her stern into the water, as, with a swirl of harbour-bed mud churning up from her propellers, she headed out towards the main channel of the river. Once clear of the western headland; he turned to port, into the Angara River proper, and called back to Vassili;

'OK; we're clear. Let's get moving. Anything nasty ahead of us?'

Vassili shouted back; above the rumble of the engines.

'Hard to say. I don't have any really up-to-date, detailed charts of the upper Angara. It's outside our operational sector; and the charts I do have, are four years old. It looks as though you can safely open her up for about one-hundred-and-forty kilometres until we come to the first shallows at Katka.'

Vadim nodded to himself, and pushed forward on the throttles. TK12's stern settled deeper into the water as the revs increased, and she gathered speed until the knot meter was indicating thirty-five knots, and she'd risen up onto her planing-hull step. The crackle of the exhausts came back in rolling echoes across the water from the forests bordering the river. The ride was smooth; the Angara was a shining mirror; broken only by the snow-white bow wave as she sliced through the water.

A couple of kilometres up-stream; Vassili came down into the cramped pilot house through the top hatch. Vadim looked round. Vassili grinned;

'Shove over Boss. I'll stand here and watch ahead for shoals, and the like. At this speed, we'll need at least three-hundred-metres to slow down.'

Vadim nodded;

'OK; you're the navigator. Just give me fair warning.'

As TK12 raced up the Angara, Vadim was surprised at her manoeuvrability in the river. He'd taken her to sea many times; running her at full throttle when it was calm enough. He knew that, even loaded with torpedoes; she would do over fifty knots when she was right up on her planing-hull step. She started to rise onto the step at a little below the thirty-five knots he was holding her at now; and she was now planing with four metres of her forward hull clear of the water.

In the gentler bends of the river, her heeling characteristics were very stable at this speed. He glanced at his watch; mid-day. They would soon be coming up to the first rapids. Vassili was peering through his binoculars at the river ahead. He reached down, and slapped Vadim's right shoulder.

'Start easing off, Boss; the Atalanka rapids are coming up in about a kilometre. We need to run them at no more than five knots. The channel is shallow and narrow; but, at least, it's straight.'

Vadim nodded, and began to ease the throttle levers back. TK12's bow began sinking back into the water as the drag of the current began to slow her. He peered out of the front windows of the pilot house. The white water spread from bank to bank; where the hell was the channel? Laurente was up on the bow; lying flat on the curved, forward decking; searching for the darker water. This would indicate where the deeper water lay. He began signalling to Vassili, by rocking his left hand up and down. Vassili called down;

'Two degrees to port, and a quarter-ahead-both...'

The engines' exhaust notes settled to a gentle rumble as Vadim eased the throttles back. TK12 slowed to an almost imperceptible crawl as the current tugged at her hull. With his head out over the bow; Laurente spread both his arms out to the sides, and then swung them forward. He had found the channel. Vassili called down;

'OK, Boss; steady as we go.'

Vadim eased the throttles forward... no more than a few millimetres; and TK12 crept forwards into the channel. To either side; the river surged and tumbled over the exposed rocks of the riverbed; creating swirls and eddies in the choppy channel water. This would be a balancing act on rudders and throttles. For ten minutes, TK12 crept up through the Atalanka rapids; with Laurente indicating the necessary course deviations by hand, to Vassili; who relayed them down to Vadim. All the while, they expected to hear the sharp grating of the riverbed on the Duralumin alloy hull, as she bottomed. But, it never came. There! The white water was fading; the current was lessening. Laurente came back down the forward curved deck. He grinned;

'OK; Piece of piss.Open her up; we're clear.'

An hour later; and forty-five kilometres upstream, where the Angara narrowed to little more than six-hundred-metres; TK12 was still at thirty-five knots. At the edge of the river, Vadim made out a group of figures sitting under the overhanging trees. Vassili swung his binoculars in their direction, and then laughed;

'A bunch of Buryats fishing... probably for sturgeon. With the wake we're creating at this speed; they're going to get wet feet!'

Vadim began to ease the throttles back. Suddenly, he saw a group of the Buryats jump to their feet, and point something towards the on-coming boat. Two, or three deep bangs rolled across the water, clouds of smoke burst from around the figures; and there came a sound like someone throwing handfuls of gravel against the hull. Vassili ducked back into the pilot house;

'Holy Shit! They're taking pot-shots at us... and with double-barrelled, flintlock shotguns by the look of it!'

He stared across at the figures, who were obviously reloading.

'Vadim; they're going to have another pop at us; I'll give them a squirt with "Dushka."

"Dushka" was the 12.7mm DShK heavy machine gun mounted on the rear of the pilot house. It was nicknamed "Dushka"... taken from the abbreviation: DShK; which literally, meant "Sweetie," or "Dear." Vadim nodded; his eyes flicking from the figures, to the river, and back again.

'OK; but make sure you aim high. We only want to frighten them.'

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Vassili nodded, and ducked under the bulkhead to the rear of the pilot house. He stood in the aft section and threw open the aft hatch. Swinging the heavy machine gun around on its mount, he pulled back the charging handle of the weapon; aimed high into the trees above the group of figures, and pressed the dual triggers behind the two spade grips. There came an ear-splitting sound like tearing calico, as a stream of rounds sprayed out of the weapon's muzzle; with star-shaped gouts of flame bursting from the muzzle-brake. The deep, drumming detonations rolled and echoed back and forth across the river, as the figures on the distant bank threw themselves down, as they were showered with splintered twigs and pine needles torn out of the trees above their heads; while the hot, spent cartridges and links tinkled off the curved deck of TK12; hissing and sputtering as they tumbled into the river.

Vadim pushed the throttles all the way forward. TK12 responded, with Vassili still holding the group in his sights. They remained flat on the river bank; shaking their fists at the cutter as it sped on up the Angara.

The next interesting event would probably be Balansk. From here, the Angara was littered with islands, all the way down to Irkutsk. They were just passing Ikzhey; another tiny settlement on the east bank. As with most of the other settlements; some dwellings were built partly below ground for warmth, with earth heaped up round the walls and over the roofs, giving them the appearance of enormous potato clamps, They usually had no more than a door, chimney, and two, or three windows.

The river was still reasonably wide; with few bends. Vadim could maintain his rate of passage for the time being. He glanced across the forest. To the east, a towering dark cloud was creeping across the blue sky. Lightning flashed through the wall of grey that was sweeping across the Taiga. The thunder echoed, and rolled across the water. A gust of wind hit the boat, and the sapphire calm of the river was suddenly whipped into a series of choppy waves. Within minutes, the sun was all but lost in the dark wall sweeping towards them, and the rain started.

The pounding of the raindrops on the water surface and the roof of the cutter was deafening. The boat rocked furiously, and the visibility was suddenly down to little more than ten metres; with the rain streaming down the pilot house front windows. Suddenly, Vassili shouted...

'Watch out! Rapids ahead!'

Directly in their path, the river divided. This was the huge island of Ostrov Osinskiy smack in the middle of the Angara; with a channel to the east and west sides of the island. Both were sinuous and winding; and both offered an even chance of grounding in their shallows. Laurente had suggested they took the west channel. It was slightly further; but, there were fewer tortuous bends and concealed shoals. Suddenly; there came the howling sound of the props breaking the surface, as TK12 bumped over a sand bar. Half-blinded by the torrential rain; Vadim had missed the turning point.

He slammed the throttles shut, and heaved the gear selectors into reverse; then rammed the throttles all the way forward. TK12 buried her bow into the seething waters... too late! With a grinding crunch, she struck the submerged spit of sand at the entrance to the channel. Laurente came shouldering into the pilot house from the engine bay forward hatch. He yelled;

'What the fuck's going on?'

Vadim looked at him sheepishly.

'I couldn't see for the rain. We've grounded on a spit just outside the channel. Why the hell don't they fit window wipers on these tubs?'

Laurente snorted;

'Fuck me, Vadim; you couldn't find your arse if you were using both of your fucking hands. You could get a bloody BT7 tank through there sideways! I suppose I've got to get out and shove her off.'

Vadim laughed.

'You really are a miserable old sod, Laurente. It's not as if she's beached. I'll try to ease her off in reverse, before you decide to go paddling.'

Laurente threw him a dirty look;

'Fuck that! If you think I'm going to let you blow up my engines you've got another fucking think coming!'

He jumped off the bow into the water and braced his shoulder against the bow. He shouted;

'OK numb-nuts; give her ten-percent throttle!'

The gear selectors were still in reverse, from where Vadim had tried to slow her, when Vassili had first spotted the sandbar through the teeming rain. As he pushed the throttles forward, the engines' note changed from a burble to a deep rumble that vibrated through the hull, as the water boiled around TK12's stern. Slowly; and with a teeth-gritting, scraping sound, she slowly dragged herself off the sandbar. Laurente heaved himself back up onto the bow and shouted;

'I'm bloody soaked; I may as well stay here to make sure you don't fuck it up again. That's a bottle of vodka you owe me!'

Vadim waved his hand in acknowledgement and eased TK12 into the channel. The torrential rain was abating a little; and he could see Laurent's hand-signals much more clearly now. Slowly, TK12 negotiated the rapids; her keel scraping now and again; until Laurente signalled that they were clear. Now, they had to negotiate the string of islands scattered up the Angara. They were just passing the little island settlement of Emikey, and would soon see the mouth of the Nizhniya Tunguska River off to their port side. From here; once clear of the narrow, eastern channel; the Angara ran almost due south for almost eighty kilometres.

Half an hour later, the brief, sudden violent rainstorm had passed, and an eerie calm fell upon the river as steam from the soaked forest rose in drifting clouds along the riverbanks. As the river widened; the first of the islands came into view. This would be Ostrov Khabutay, with the little settlement of Nizhnyaya Seredkina clinging to the steep eastern bank, halfway down the channel. Once clear of the island the next settlement, Verkhnyaya Seredkina came into sight, overlooking the second island... Ostrov Shintey. Vadim was getting a vague, nagging headache from the sheer concentration of negotiating the islands and channels, and the vibrations coming up through the throttle levers were making his arm ache.

Vassili was calling out the names of the islands and settlements from his out-of-date maps, as they slipped past. TK12 was rumbling along at twenty knots, negotiating island after island; passing settlement after settlement... Ostrov Maraktuy, with the settlements Yevseyyevo, Bumazhkina; Kazach'ye; Ostrov Konny, and the settlements Verkhneye Ostrozhnoye; Verkhulay, Itsygun; Makar'yevo, Grisheva Svirskoye, and Ust'-Kotikha.. Vadim sighed. Who gives a shit? One settlement looked very much like another. All he wanted to do was clear these bloody islands and open her up on down to Irkutsk. There! About two kilometres ahead the last two little islands and then, Ostrov Barkhatavskiy; the last big island on this stretch of the Angara, where it curved around into the east.

Laurente pushed his way into the pilot house, with a grim expression on his face. He laid a hand on Vadim's shoulder.

'Take it steady, son. All this speeding up and slowing down... together with the forward and reversing of the props, is making the shaft couplings run hot. The port one is holding at the moment, but I don't like the look of the starboard one I replaced earlier. These MTZ bearings are as soft as shit. When we get to Irkutsk, I'm off to see a mate, and try to get some of those English "Hardy Spicer" roller bearings. Those boys really know how to build them to make them last.'

Vadim grinned;

'Not very patriotic of you, comrade...'

Laurente snorted.

'Fuck the patriotism. Do you want to paddle this tub all the way back to Bratskoi? No? Then shut the fuck up, and don't try and teach your old Babushka to suck eggs.'

Vadim sighed again. He was beginning to regret his decision to bring this tub. The MIG "Bronekater" armoured cutter might well have been a better bet. But, then again; she was bigger, heavier, and thirstier; and would have been a real bitch to get through the rapids. At this reduced speed, even with this streamlined greyhound they would be lucky to get to Irkutsk by nightfall. He glanced at the fuel gauges. The needles of the twin dials were creeping down towards quarter tanks. They would have to refuel at Irkutsk. TK12's engines ran on hundred-octane aviation fuel. Would there be any stocks at Irkutsk? If not; was there an aerodrome anywhere close to this part of the upper Angara? He glanced back at the fuel drums in the torpedo wells. Sixteen-hundred litres; and so far; no need to touch them.

Then there was the problem with the propeller shaft couplings. Still, what did he expect? TK12 had been well thrashed during her previous existence with the Northern Fleet. She was one of the craft that had been used for the propaganda photographs in the mid-thirties; and had spent most of her life at full throttle in the Baltic, under the command of a lunatic Cossack named Lebedev; whose idea of mechanical sympathy was subjecting TK12 to a continuous battering at fifty-five knots until he ran out of fuel, blew up the engines; or his superiors told him to stop. Consequently, when she was detached to the upper Yenisei patrol squadron; she was so clapped-out that she could barely make twenty-five knots.

The workshop boys at Yeniseisk had scrounged a couple of hours-expired, GAM 850hp, V12 aero engines from God knows where; and rebuilt them. The trouble was, that all the rest of the mechanicals had been over-stressed; and the starboard coupling failure was just one more spanner in the works.

Vadim shouted to Vassili;

'How much further to go?'

Vassili called back;

'We're coming up to Buret. A couple of kilometres further upstream, the river splits into three channels. We go for the middle one. It's narrower; but a damn sight straighter. Once clear, we are about ninety-five kilometres from Irkutsk.'

Laurente came up from the engine bay, and pushed into the little pilot house. He stank of sweat and hot oil. He leaned on the aft bulkhead and shouted;

'She sounds as though she's got a can of nails tied around each fucking prop shaft. The rollers in the bearing cages are beginning to break up. I'll have to change both of the fuckers at Irkutsk.'

Vadim looked around.

'So; what do we do? Keep her at "chug" speed?'

As he spoke, Vassili suddenly pointed out to the west. There; bright, against the early-evening sky, was a thin, white plume of steam speeding to the south. He swung his binoculars in its direction, and shouted down into the pilot house;

'It's the Trans-Siberian; she's moving bloody fast... about a hundred-and-ten Km/h. She's just coming down off the heights above Usolie. She'll be in Irkutsk long before us.'

Vadim glanced at Laurente.

'We're not going to make it in time, are we?'

Laurente was silent for a moment; then he spoke;

'Stick both engines into neutral for a few minutes. I'll over-pack the couplings with heavy grease. That should hold her for what we need to do.'

Vadim stared at him.

'So; what do we need to do?'

Laurente grinned.

'We go for broke, son! Steer her into that patch of slack water over to port while I grease her up. We won't drift too much in there. Then, when I say; feed in the throttles right up to the stops. The Yenisei patrol taxi service isn't going to be late for this pick-up.'

Vadim glanced at Vassili.

'Can we run the rest of the river at the sort of speed she'll be doing?'

Vassili studied his charts; a frown on his face. Then he looked up.

'Yes; but we'll need to stay sharp. There aren't any more rapids... at least not on this chart; but you'll need to go island dodging. I'll guide you from up here.'

Vadim glanced back at Laurente.

So; what sort of speed are you talking about; you mad bastard?'

Laurente laughed.

'Right up on the planing-hull step, son; right up on the planing-hull step... about fifty knots.'

Vassili exploded;

'Holy fucking St. Seraphim of Sarov; you're stark, raving mad... the pair of you!'

Laurente laughed again.

'Don't be such a shirt-lifter... It'll be great!'

Vassili snorted.

'Fuck you... fuck you both. Too much vodka has softened your brains!'

Vadim steered TK12 into the stretch of slack water; closed the throttles, and pulled the selector levers into neutral. Laurente disappeared back down into the engine bay, and Vassili spoke again.

'At the sort of speed that old bastard's talking about; you'll have to stay really sharp, and start turning at one hell of a distance out when we need to alter course. We know this old tub's rudder response can be bloody vague at those sorts of speeds. You're OK until you get about three kilometres past Usolye on the west bank; then, the river starts to edge east, and begins to narrow. Then you're into island dodging. The first two islands are Ostrov Bol'shoy... dead ahead; and Ostrov Krasnyy right behind it. Keep them both to port. Then comes a long bend to east, and we're into the real fun. There are four small islands, and then, the next large one about a kilometre further upstream. Keep this large one to starboard. I'll call the rest as we get towards them.'

As Vassili was tracing out his course through the island channels to Vadim, Laurente came up from the engine bay. Thrusting his head down through the top hatch of the pilot house, he grinned;

'OK; we're as ready as we'll ever be. Engage the props, and start feeding in the throttles smoothly.'

Vadim pushed the selector levers to "Ahead," and began easing the throttles forward. The water churned around TK12's stern, and she began to make headway against the current. As the knot-meter needle began winding up; the bows started lifting. Vassili called down from his vantage point; standing head and shoulders out of the top hatch.

'Keep her in the middle of the centre channel. According to this chart, you've only got about three small, and one big island in your way in thirty kilometres, almost dead straight. So; you've got plenty of space to get her up onto the "step," before we reach the east bend, and have to start manoeuvring through the smaller islands.'

Vadim began easing the throttles forward. TK12's bow began lifting higher out of the water as the knot-meter wound up. Fifteen... twenty; twenty-five... thirty... thirty-five knots, indicated. The surging bow-wave suddenly began to move back towards the pilot house. The buffeting faded as she lifted up onto her planing-hull step, and the knot-meter needle flicked up, almost instantaneously, to an indicated forty-five knots. The exhausts' note settled to a deep, snarling crackle that rolled back and forth across the river as she raced up the channel with five metres of her forward hull clear of the water; her boiling wake tearing a great, white rent across the face of the sapphire-mirror surface of the Angara.

Above the sound of the wind; the crackle of the exhausts, and the hiss of water; Vassili's voice came down through the hatch;

'We're just clearing Ostrov Listvennichnyy. Head for the right-hand channel of Ostrov Berezovyy.'

Vadim applied what he considered a small adjustment of right rudder. TK12 slewed to starboard, and suddenly lost lift on her planing-hull step. The bow crashed down into the water, and the boat slowed with a vicious jolt; heading directly for the western bank of the river, with her props screaming, as the tops of the whirling blades momentarily broke the surface. Frantically, he wrenched the wheel to port, and she began to straighten. Ramming the throttles fully forward stabilized her, and she began to lift her keel again. Laurente thrust his head through the rear hatch;

'What the fuck's going on? You assholes nearly blew up both my engines. Both rev-counter needles almost bent themselves round the fucking stops!'

Vadim called back, sheepishly;

'Sorry, Laurente; I fed in too much rudder and lost the "step." The rudder control is real "Hair-trigger" stuff at these speeds.'

Laurente gave a heavy, resigned sigh;

'Vadim; you'll never make a river pilot as long as you've got a fucking hole in your arse. Let me have her. I'll show you amateurs how to ride this tub.'

He shoved Vadim to one side, and took control. Sticking a Machorka cigarette between his lips, and lighting it; he rammed the throttles all the way forward. TK12 responded instantly; rearing up, and burying her stern into the Angara. As the speed built up, the keel rose higher and higher out of the water, until she was flying; right up on the trailing edge of her planing-hull step; with a full eight metres of her forward keel out of the water. The knot-meter indicated fifty-five knots. Vadim and Vassili were hanging on to anything they could grab hold of. Laurente laughed.

'Watch the Master, children. Now this is REAL hull planing; not that limp-wristed shite that you were farting about with. You've got to give it to her good and hard... just like screwing a whore!'

Vadim and Vassili watched, with mounting terror; as Laurente slewed and skittered the cutter up through the islands. He glanced at them, and laughed again.

'A piece of piss, lads. You have to remember that I rode these tubs with the Baltic Fleet. When we launched the torps, you had to be sharp in the turns with two of those bastards coming up your arse!'

Vadim said nothing. He was watching the instruments. He could almost see the fuel contents gauge needles dropping down the scale. As far as he was concerned, this mad dash could only end in one, of three ways. They would run out of fuel; wreck on some God-forsaken lump of rock; or blow up the engines when the shaft couplings failed. He glanced at Laurente; dragging on his Machorka; completely unconcerned. He hoped to God that he was indeed, "The Master."

Twenty kilometres to the southeast of Nizhneudinsk; the Trans-Siberian Express thundered on through the thinning Taiga towards Tulun; eighty kilometres further to the east. The landscape was becoming flatter, and the forests had been extensively logged. This was Gulag country. Irkutsk was now, only some eight hours away; and the lowering sun was painting the western sky a deep, blood red; casting flickering shadows through the trees marching interminably along the edges of the permanent way.

A cold moon was rising in the gathering dusk, far to the east over the Mongolian mountains, towards which, the endless silver ribbons of the rails forged into the distance. Karyn and Sacha were in their compartment studying a map of the Stony Tunguska river basin. The terrain didn't look promising... on the map, it appeared to be little more than endless swamp. Sacha sighed;

'How the hell do they expect us to get all the way up there? I don't see much in the way of roads. At best, we might find a few tracks heading up towards Vanavara; otherwise, it's all Taiga and swamp.'

Karyn nodded;

'Well; they must have made some sort of arrangements for suitable transport. The authorisation for this expedition came from the very top.'

As Sacha was about to reply; there came a tap on the door of the compartment. Karyn glanced at him and handed him the Nagant pistol. He carefully opened the door. It was Anton, who stepped quickly into the compartment; closing the door behind him. He gave a wry smile as he saw the Nagant.

'Good move; Sacha. We can't be too careful.'

He motioned to the map, spread out on the lower bunk.

'Funny, you should be studying that. I've just opened my sealed orders. The boat will pick us up from the quay of the shipyard on the west bank of the river at Predmest'ye Sverdlova... across from the town; and we'll drop the Provodnitsa, Jereni Cherevin, off at the aerodrome at Belaya; about one-hundred-and-eighty kilometres down the Angara, unless there's one any closer. The orders say that they have arranged to bring some suitable transport down to Sogra from the airstrip at Kezhma. From there we will get a plane to the new airstrip they're building just outside Vanavara. When we get there, we pick up something that will get us to the site of your investigation. The site is in the permafrost belt, so I reckon it will be a tracked vehicle of some kind.'

Sacha looked at Karyn.

'Well; they seem to have thought of everything. I just hope the whole thing isn't just a wild goose chase.'

Anton laughed;

'Don't worry about that. Now, let's get something to eat. We're only about five-hundred kilometres out of Irkutsk. We'll soon see the Angara River out to the left.'

He glanced at his service watch.

'It's half-past eight now. We need to get a decent sleep tonight, before we go boating. It's likely to be a long day, tomorrow.'

As they were getting ready to go to the restaurant car, Karyn asked Anton what sort of craft would take them down the Angara. He grinned.

'It's going to be one of the Yenisei river patrol craft... probably, one of their cutters. It's going to be a fascinating trip. The boat will be armed to the teeth... and fast. The crew will all be crazy bastards. They have to be; they spend most of their time chasing opium smugglers in water slightly deeper than your average puddle.'

The restaurant car was half-full. Several men lolled, totally drunk on tables strewn with empty vodka bottles. A group of young soldiers... the ones who had assisted Anton at Krasnoyarsk; were playing "Durak"… a popular card game. As he entered the restaurant car, they leapt to their feet, standing rigidly to attention. He indicated that they should relax and continue their game, and called out to the cook, Valentin...

'What's on tonight, Tovarishch?'

Valentin stuck his head around the door of the tiny kitchen, and replied,

'Grybnoy… mushroom soup, followed by Zharkoye… beef stew with sour cream and garlic. But you'll have to wait a while; I've only got Yuliya on tonight. Larisa is still completely fucked up over that business with your pal, Tasha Chernikova. She's on the brink of having a nervous breakdown in her bunk.'

Anton nodded. Not surprising; finding out that your lover has been horribly executed just an hour or so before you had arranged to meet with him. He chose a table in the corner; well away from the snoring drunks, and settled Karyn and Sacha into their seats. He then moved across to the tiny counter that the Rail Company had the audacity to call a bar, and spoke quietly to Yuliya, who was obsessively polishing glasses. She gave him a tiny, timid smile, and ducked down behind the bar; returning with three charkas and a bottle of Siberian vodka, which she handed to him.

He returned to the table; pulled the cork out of the bottle with his teeth; and sloshed a good measure into each charka. Sitting down; he raised his charka, and said with a sad smile,

'Absent friends.'

Karyn and Sacha repeated the toast; and all three solemnly tossed the contents of the charkas down their throats.

Vadim's knuckles were white from where he was clutching the grab-handle on the front bulkhead of the pilot house of TK12, as Laurente hurled her up the Angara at fifty-five knots. He had run her at this speed through the night. The bend to the east was coming up fast. The little settlement of Kitoy flashed past on the starboard side, and the almost land-locked island of Ostrov Monastyrskiy loomed threateningly before them. When it seemed they must dash the bow into the onrushing bank; Laurente spun the wheel and flicked the port throttle level back; simultaneously thrusting the starboard throttle fully open.

TK12 heeled sharply to port; her gunwale suddenly level with the river surface, as a great gout of white water sprayed out from her starboard chine plates. Laurente held her on the outer edge of her planing step as she skidded across the surface of the Angara. Vadim clung on for dear life as the south bend suddenly appeared. Laurente merely reversed the throttle positions and spun the wheel to starboard. Again, TK12 lurched, and water sprayed out from the port side as he repeated the manoeuvre the opposite way. The river now went almost due south. Laurente straightened the boat and synchronised the throttles. TK12 rose back up onto her planing step and almost flew up the river.

Four kilometres ahead, loomed the next large island right in the middle of the river. Ostrov Kompaneyskiy; twenty-five kilometres upstream from Irkutsk. Vassili shouted above the crackle of the exhausts that Laurente could hold his speed through the port channel. It was almost straight for about three-and-a-half kilometres past the next almost land-locked island of Ostrov Zuyevskiy, off to starboard. These virtually land-locked islands were separated from the shore by only the narrowest of channels. Why they bothered to call them islands at all; to Vassili; was a complete waste of time and effort.

The last, but one, of the big islands would be Ostrov Konnyy, eighteen kilometres out of Irkutsk. After that; all that were left were Ostrova Fereferova... another of the land-locked islands, a few kilometres further on; and a sprinkling of smaller islands scattered up the last sixteen kilometres. Laurente could hold this speed all the way, until the settlement of Zhilkinskoye came up on the starboard bow. Then he needed to slow for the fairly sharp turn into the mouth of the River Irkut around the northern point of the island of Ostrov Lyudvi; avoiding a sunken hulk marked on the chart as being in the middle of the channel, as he lined up to berth at the shipyard at Predmest'ye Sverdlova; across the river from the city of Irkutsk proper.

Vadim was watching the fuel gauges. The needles were getting very close to the empty marks. He glanced out across the right-hand bank of the river. The plume of white steam from the Trans-Siberian Express was now barely visible to the south.