Chapter Nineteen.

The "Barracks" at Vanavara aerodrome was a long, crude log hut roofed with corrugated iron sheets laid over wooden shingles. The interior walls were clad with spruce planks. The construction was very rudimentary, but offered some insulation protection against the bitter cold of the Siberian winter months. The long, dormitory-type room contained a dozen iron bedsteads. At the far end of the room was a dividing wall separating the dormitory space from a smallish room containing a wooden bed, table, chairs, and a wardrobe. Cheslav Istomin said that this was the accommodation for the Political Officer... not that there was one attached to the aerodrome at present. Karyn could use the privacy of this room to change into her expedition clothing. Her companions would have to make do with the dormitory.

Turning to Karyn, he asked how long did they anticipate being out in the taiga? Their answer would establish what type of clothing they would need. It was now early August, and the autumn was over by the end of September. Winter over Siberia would be in full force by November, with the average daily high temperature at minus thirty-seven-degrees centigrade. The Siberian winter was so cold you could hear what some Evenki called "The Whisper of the Stars." As you exhaled, water vapour crystallised almost instantly, and then burst with a barely audible tinkle.

The first constant snow cover usually fell over Irkutsk during the first week of November. The bone-chilling cold set in toward the end of December and lasted through January, when the average daily high temperature was minus fifteen degrees centigrade.

Karyn shrugged. How long was a piece of string? It was difficult to give an accurate timescale. From their dropping-off point it depended on whether they could hire horses from the Evenki, and what sort of payment they would expect. Then there was the trek to the site. Istomin grinned.

'It all depends on what you have to barter with. Hard currency will probably be all right; but they really prefer something they can trade with.'

Sacha nodded.

'How about Gold Chervonets? Moscow issued me with a supply for just such a situation. Would they be acceptable to the Evenki?'

Istomin laughed loudly.

'They would probably carry you up to Tunguska on their backs for payment in those, Comrade!'

He became serious.

'OK. Let's see. The trip up to Okhchen's hut is about thirty kilometres, and will take the best part of about five hours in the Stalingradec. It would take you a good two-and-a-half days on foot. The trek up the east bank of the Chamba to the mouth of the Makikta River will take at least two days. From there on, it's anyone's guess. Then, of course, there's also the time spent doing whatever you have to do when you finally get there to be taken into consideration. This means that we shall have to equip you with supplies for at least a week before we set out from here. You will need to hire at least five packhorses to carry this amount. After that, we can airdrop supplies into the Tunguska Scar. It's unmissable... a bloody great butterfly-shaped clearing in the taiga... even after all this time.'

Karyn studied him for a few moments.

'How long do you think it will take us to get up to this place you call the Tunguska Scar?'

Istomin shrugged.

'In all; from here... Possibly five days... if you're lucky. I can't begin to imagine what you're looking for in that God-forsaken place, but I reckon you'll be away for at least a month to six weeks... and that's cutting it fine. You'll only have a couple of weeks grace before the temperature begins to drop and the first real snows arrive. I'll go and get the coolies to sort out some suitable kit, and if you're out there any longer we'll drop some winter clothes along with the supplies.'

As he turned to leave, he spoke over his shoulder.

'Don't worry about having to haul tents up there. The wooden huts on the edge of the southern swamp that Kulik's team built in 1928 are still standing and habitable. They showed up well on the aerophotosurvey Kulik arranged earlier this year, after his previous one in June of '37 ended up with the hydroplane they were using crashing near Vanavara, as it landed on the Podkamennaya Tunguska River. Kulik, his photographer Petrov, and the pilot Khudonogov were unhurt, but the survey proper had to be postponed till the spring of this year. The huts are probably a bit musty, but they'll keep the midges and mosquitoes from swarming all over you at night.'

As he left the barracks, Karyn looked at Anton and Sacha. She sighed.

'This is starting to sound ominous. It seems that the long arm of the Moscow Soviet doesn't extend quite this far. I think we're on our own from here on in, boys.'

Anton nodded his agreement.

'True; but that's no bad thing. At least we won't have to keep looking over our shoulders all the time for Lubyanka shadows.'

Sacha, however; said nothing. Anton glanced at Karyn, who gave an imperceptible shrug in reply. Perhaps he was preoccupied with the part he would have to play on the expedition; but it was a little odd that he chose not to make some comment.

There was no time to press the issue... if indeed, there was one to press; as Istomin rumbled back into the barracks, accompanied by a young "Serzhant"... a sergeant, and an even younger "Yefreytor"... a corporal, each carrying a large bundle. Istomin and the Serzhant each tossed their bundles onto two adjacent bedsteads, while the young Yefreytor carried his to the end of the dormitory, and deposited it in the unused room reserved for the establishment's so-far absentee resident "Politruk"... the Political officer.

As Anton and Sacha began to unbutton their uniforms; the young Yefreytor came out of the end room and shyly beckoned to Karyn. He turned and stood in the doorway. As she came to him, she saw that he had laid the contents of the bundle out neatly on the wooden bedstead. With an ill-concealed blush, he began to explain the order in which she should don the garments for the best protection against the adversities of the taiga and swamps; and especially the midges and mosquitoes, which teemed the area into which she was about to journey.

The long trouser and long sleeve shirt type underclothes should be worn over her lingerie. The shirt was cut in the same style as a gymnasterka and the trousers like a pair of sharovary. It was made of white cotton and was available in a summer and winter thickness. This pair was summer-weight. Next, came the proper, Khaki heavy cotton/wool mix gymnasterka piped in Air Force cornflower-blue, with matching collar tabs, and a pair of Khaki sharovary in the same material. These were a type of flared demi-breeches of Officer Quality. She looked around for socks. There were none.

The young Yefreytor explained that "portyanki" foot-wraps were more effective at preventing frostbite. They would be spending a lot of time walking on permafrost. The swampy terrain was much easier to deal with in boots and foot-wraps, because, if you stepped into water or mud deeper than your boots, and even if your foot remained submerged for a no more than a few seconds; with socks, your feet would become soaked... and prone to frostbite from the permafrost. With foot-wraps; once you took your foot out of the water, your foot remained dry, by reason that the foot-wrap at the top of your ankle absorbed the water and didn't allow it to penetrate deeper inside the boot. The skill of wrapping the foot-wrap properly was one of the first things they taught you in the Soviet army, because a soldier who couldn't do it correctly could not walk or run properly.

He pointed to two strips of tightly woven, cotton cloth about the thickness of tea towels, approximately ninety-centimetres-long, and thirty-five-centimetres-wide. He said that this cloth was called, in Russian... "Byaz"; and he would show her how to wrap them properly so that they would remain tight and not cause her feet to blister. But first; he had been instructed by Comrade Serzhant Evelina Dimanovna of the clothing depot to enquire as to what size "byustgalter"... brassiere she would need. Blushing furiously, he explained that she would need a service version to avoid the discomfort of being jolted around in the STZ-5 Stalingradec as they journeyed north through the taiga. Karyn smiled at the young corporal standing there, crimson-faced.

'The one I'm wearing is a German size Seventy-five "C." I don't know what that is in Russian; but I'm sure she will know.'

The young corporal nodded, and almost ran out of the room.

A little later, he returned... still crimson-faced; and held out a discreetly wrapped parcel. Karyn thanked him, and placed the parcel on the bed. He almost ran out of the room once again; closing the door far swifter than was really necessary. She began to undress, hanging her clothes in the old wardrobe. She opened the parcel. It contained a cream cotton, service "byustgalter" and a pair of ample drawers... also in cream cotton.

On the far wall of the little room, there was an old, chipped mirror. Karyn turned, and gazed into its foxed, and misty glass. She admired the pretty, feminine, German "Triumph" brassiere and French knickers that she was wearing; then glanced back at the garments laying on the bed. She gave a sigh and began to unhook her brassiere fastenings.

The Soviet service "byustgalter" was an absolute dreadnaught of a garment. Sturdily strapped and double-stitched, it reached to the bottom of her rib cage... reinforced with four lines of cross-stitching between the protruding cups which were cut separately; stitched into an enveloping cone shape, and then inserted with double stitching into the main body of the brassiere. A three-centimetre, elasticated band encircled the lower edge of this robustly constructed garment.

As she slipped the wide straps over her shoulders, feeling the broad expanse of sturdy cotton envelop her femininity, she sighed again. It reminded her of the "Gesundheitsleibchen"... the "Health Bodice" that her mother had made her wear when she was twelve. This was a vest-like garment worn under a girl's blouse, to which hose supporters were sewn or otherwise attached. It was the German equivalent to the dreaded American "Emancipation bodice," or the equally dreaded English "Liberty bodice."

The Soviet service "byustgalter" was about as alluring as a badly fitting set of cheap false teeth, but; as she fastened the row of hooks and eyes down the back, she felt its snug support envelop her. Perhaps these Russians did know what they were talking about! She slipped off the French knickers and pulled on the pair of ample drawers. Even they were comfortable. So; what was next? The shirt and trousers underclothes set, followed by the khaki sharovary and gymnasterka.

In the corner was a pair of red Russian leather "Sapogi"... high boots lined in grey kid. They were butter-soft to the touch, fitted with rubber soles and heels, and were obviously Officer-grade footwear. Opening the door, she called the young corporal. As he approached, his blush flooded back into his cheeks. She smiled.

'OK, now show me how to wrap these "portyanki," please.'

His blush deepened. He pointed to the blue cotton twill coveralls on the bed.

'You have to be wearing these first. Out in the taiga, apart from the mosquitoes and gnats; there are ticks as well. They try to get into your clothing by quietly moving up your body. The portyanki are wrapped over the bottoms of the coverall legs to stop them from doing this. The mosquitoes in this part of Siberia don't carry disease... but the ticks do; so you have to be very careful. Not less than twice a day, you must inspect all of your clothing and exposed areas of your body. If you do get one attached to you, don’t tear it off! It's better to cover it with iodine or to burn it with a cigarette or other hot item. Afterwards, it will fall off by itself. Apply iodine to the wound. Remove the head with the help of a needle or pin that has been sterilized with fire.'

He waited while Karyn climbed into the coveralls; then spread one of the portyanki out on the floor, and asked her to place her foot diagonally across one corner of the cloth, so that a triangle of about fifteen centimetres of the material protruded from the outer edge of her foot. He then pulled this triangle up over her instep, and over her toes, and tucked the end in. Pressing this triangle against her instep, he then brought the main length over the top of her instep, pulling it tight. He tucked the toe in and smoothed out the edge.

He continued pulling the remainder of the material up the side of her lower leg, and wrapped it tightly round the back of her ankle.

He then tucked the end in, and pulled the coverall leg down over the finished portyanki and tied them around her ankles with the tapes attached to the bottoms of the coverall legs to stop the portyanki from slipping down. He smiled.

'See, it's not at all difficult. Each one can be achieved in eight simple movements. You just begin with your toes. The initial trick is to get them around the feet nice and smooth, then wrap them around the back of the ankle and tuck them in.'

He reached for the second portyanki, and spread it out on the floor.

With a shy smile he said,

'Now, you try.'

After Karyn had made three attempts, he seemed satisfied, and reached for the boots. He said that these were special. They were made of Russian leather... so called, not because they were literally made of Russian leather, although this was how the name originated; but because of the process by which "Russian leather" was tanned and dyed, to make it exceptionally soft and virtually impervious to water. The soles and heels were of rubber to add insulation from the permafrost and give the best grip on ice.

As Karyn slipped on the boots, she was surprised by the feel of them. She hadn't quite known what to expect after the elegant court shoes she had worn since Berlin. The Russian leather boots felt like swansdown slippers on her feet. The young corporal smiled.

'So; how do they fit? Not too loose? If they were, we would simply wrap another pair of portyanki around your feet. That's the way we make sure our boots are a perfect fit; and that way, we don't get blisters or possible frostbite.'

Karyn smiled.

'No; they're fine. I could easily forget I was wearing them. Only the Russians would come up with the idea of foot-wraps rather than socks. It is just so... Russian.'

The young corporal laughed.

'True. The story goes that the portyanki were introduced by Tzar Peter the Great, who took the idea from the Dutch army after a visit to their country at the end of the seventeenth century. Our troops have wrapped their feet ever since, choosing strips of flannel in winter and cotton in summer; so you're in good company.'

He stood up, and smiled.

'OK, you're ready now. Let's see if your friends have sorted themselves out.'

He opened the door of the little room for Karyn, and they walked into the main dormitory. Anton and Sacha were waiting; wearing the same pattern blue cotton twill coveralls and boots. They both gave her an appraising look. The coverall she was wearing did little to smother her figure... enhanced by the industrial-strength cups of the Soviet service "byustgalter"... which actually emphasised her bosom to a greater degree than the pretty, feminine, German brassiere she had discarded. Anton raised an eyebrow, and was about to say something, when Istomin came back into the barracks, saying the coolies had loaded the Stalingradec with the necessary supplies, including six of the new unified "Food supply in aircraft" emergency ration packs, extra water containers; and assorted, easily transportable equipment; and that they were ready to go.

As they walked to the waiting transport, the young corporal said that the emergency packs were the type that were standard equipment on aircraft flying over Siberia, the Far East, and other relatively uninhabited regions of the USSR, as well as over seas and oceans. They contained an emergency food allowance consisting of nine hundred grams of cracker biscuits, nine hundred grams of "Zolotoy yarlyk"... "Gold Label" chocolate, three cans of chipped liver or braised meat, equalling one thousand-and- fourteen grams, and three thousand grams of fresh drinking water in separate metal containers.

The food supplies contained in each pack provided basic meals for three days for one person. These emergency food kits could hardly be considered a low-calorie diet for physical work of moderate heaviness; they were purely emergency rations. Proper supplies would be air-dropped, as Istomin had already said.

Karyn smiled, but said nothing. The young corporal was only trying to be helpful, but, this was starting to look as though it was going to be a pretty rough trip. Istomin helped Karyn up into the cab. This, in itself, was no easy accomplishment. To mount this vehicle entailed putting her foot on the track front bogie wheel; hanging onto the inner handle of the rear-hinged door and the front wall of the cab, lifting her other foot up onto the long mudguard, and pulling herself in. Istomin had no choice but to put his hands on her buttocks and shove her up into the cab. This, he probably enjoyed; but at least had the good grace to put on a show of apologetic embarrassment.

The cab of the vehicle was cramped. The engine housing separated the two seats and took up at least half of the width of the cab. Istomin slammed the door and walked around the front of the vehicle to haul himself up into the driving seat. He glanced out of the narrow rear window behind his head, and established that Anton and Sacha were safely aboard, and settled on the two side-facing seats. Satisfied that they were secure, he slammed the driver's door, waggled the steering levers; checked the transmission control lever was in neutral, and pressed the starter button. The big four-cylinder engine rumbled into life; sending shuddery vibrations through the cab floor and up into the seats. He shoved the transmission control lever into first gear, stamped on the accelerator pedal, and, with an upwardly swaying heave, the Stalingradec lurched away from the barracks building.

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As the vehicle accelerated across the grass of the landing strip. Karyn was surprised at the relative smoothness of the ride. She had, at first sight of the vehicle, imagined it would be a jolting, jarring experience; but the Stalingradec was designed with oscillating bogies and coil springs; which effectively smoothed out the rougher patches. What it would be like as they negotiated the taiga, however, would probably be something entirely different.

The Stalingradec rumbled out of the aerodrome main gate and headed west, through the muddy lanes that served as the roads of Vanavara village. They travelled little more than half-a-kilometre before the taiga began to close in around them. The muddy track known locally as the Tropa Kulika... the Kulik route was barely wide enough for the lumbering Stalingradec. This was said to be the route Kulik had followed on his second attempt in 1927. Soon they were swallowed by the endless green taiga, with scarcely a glimpse of the sky to be seen through the dense canopy of the forest.

Istomin kept the Stalingradec lurching along a fair pace; swaying on its suspension over the deeply rutted track. The sensation was odd; the closest Karyn could compare it to, was a ride on the Waltzer in the Tiergarten fairground, back in Berlin. It was just as well she didn't suffer from motion sickness! She wondered how Anton and Sacha were faring in the back on the side-facing seats. Istomin shouted, above the roar of the engine, that they would reach the river Chamba soon, and would stop for food. He glanced at his service wristwatch, and said that they were making good time. They would probably reach Okhchen's hut by mid-afternoon.

Half-an-hour later, the taiga gradually began to thin. Istomin said that they were almost at the first Evenki settlement. Almost as soon as he had said this, the track opened up into a broad expanse of lush green grass, in which were pitched some dozen or so "Choum" - the traditional Evenki huts.

As the Stalingradec lurched to a halt, with a swaying curtsey on its suspension; children dressed in Evenki traditional costume scampered to the vehicle as Karyn gingerly dismounted, and hung fur and bead amulets round her neck; presenting her with bunches of wildflowers. An Evenki woman recited magic words for good luck, and girls in Russian dress offered the age-old welcome of bread and salt. Istomin spoke with the camp elder and explained their reason for being there. Several pouches of Machorka exchanged hands, and some deal was struck.

Returning to his passengers, he explained that the Evenki established trails through the taiga, and frequently left caches of goods along the trails. They left sledges packed with winter clothing and food supplies as they moved to their summer pastures, and recovered these caches as they returned for the winter. Istomin said that the camp elder had given his permission for Karyn, Anton and Sacha to replenish their supplies from any of the sled caches they came across as they moved up to Tunguska. They were then invited into the camp elder's Choum. It was a conical structure resembling a North American Indian Tepee, consisting of poles covered by hides. At the centre of the tent was an ancient box stove, while on either side were two rows of wooden floorboards, on which were piled reindeer hides that served as a sleeping area. The Choum had one entrance... on the opposite side of which, was a space usually reserved for women, where the household goods and implements were stored. Above the hearth, horizontal poles ran across the Choum. These were used for drying clothes, to smoke clothing that was made from hide, and to hang pots and kettles.

The Choum of the camp were arranged in a circle alongside a series of fire pits, which were tended throughout the day. Two of the Choum were used by herders and their family members visiting during the summer. Three other Choum housed the unmarried herders. The reindeer gathered within the Choum circle as the smoking fires drove away the swarming insects.

The elder's wife invited them to sit, and brought food. It consisted of reindeer meat and "lepushki"... the core staples of the Evenki diet. Lepushki were unleavened loaves of wheat bread, broken... not sliced... and dipped in vegetable oil. The bread was exceptionally thick, heavy, and very dry. Istomin said that Lepushki and black tea usually constituted breakfast while lunch and dinner consisted of unseasoned boiled reindeer meat. This was to be eaten with one's fingers and a hunting knife. The meat was gamey and delicious. The lepushki was, frankly... "Robust." Karyn decided to pass on the Reindeer bone marrow... a favourite of the Evenki, into which they dipped their lepushki.

As Istomin talked with the elder, outside, in the circle of Choum, the children were playing. Karyn stood at the entrance of the Choum, watching them. One of the Evenki women, who spoke reasonable Russian, explained their game. She said it was called "Khargi and Lake," and was based on the Evenki beliefs of Shamanism. The players drew two circles, one against the other, which represented two lakes. Then they chose a "Devil"... the Khargi. One of the players led Khargi to the middle between the lakes, pushed him onto the ground, shouted: "Home! Home! Home!" and ran to the lake. After this, the players ran from one lake to the other. The Devil ran after them trying to catch them. The Devil pushed the one who was caught onto the ground, pretended that he sucked the brain out of the victim’s head by laying his hand on the head of the victim and shouting: .."Ymgyl". "Sucked out." The caught one closed his eyes and pretended to be dead. After that, the dead one turned Devil’s mate and helped in catching the others. The game continued until Khargi and his servants caught the last one of the players.

She explained that both in shamanism and the children's game, Khargi preferred to act on the ground, and water gave shelter from evil spirits. In the Evenki folklore water could become insuperable boundary for the creatures from the lower world hunting for humans. By crossing the river, the Evenki could survive after the chase, while the cosmic river processed monsters into things useful for humans.

Karyn's presence somewhat spoiled the outcome of the game, for, as the children noticed her, they broke off from their chase and clustered around her. They were fascinated by her bright, blonde hair, and studied her pale complexion with their fathomless, black Mongolian eyes. Karyn tried to speak to them in Russian, but, although many Evenki were bi-lingual; these children spoke only the Evenki language. One little girl came closer to Karyn, and with a shy smile held out her hand. As Karyn reached for the child's hand, the little girl opened it and offered a tiny bone pendant carved with a figure of a naked female with Reindeer antlers growing from her head. The Evenki woman said that this gift was an amulet of the "Animal Mother" and would protect Karyn as she progressed into the north.

Karyn bent to thank the child, who gave her another shy smile and scampered back to her friends. Karyn was about to follow her, when Istomin appeared and said it was time to move on. He shoved her up into the cab of the Stalingradec while Anton and Sacha clambered up over the tailboard. A couple of bags of dried Reindeer meat were tossed up to them as Istomin started the engine and grated the vehicle into gear. With a wave of his hand out of the cab window to the children, he stamped on the accelerator and sent the Stalingradec lurching away onto the muddy track that led up to the Chamba River.

Back in his office at Kraslag Kansk. P.O. Box 235 [17], Lifshen had come to a decision. In view of what he had learned from the Overseer Roschin at the Irkutsk Aviation Plant, this German girl and her companions must now be close to wherever they were heading. He telephoned the Bratskoi NKVD office, and spoke with Mladshyi Lejtenant Gozbezopasnosti... Junior Lieutenant of State Security, Maksim Lempitski, who informed Lifshen that, according to his officers' reports on the shooting of the pimp Cheremisinov on the mole; the Navy cutter was intending to drop off her passengers at the little settlement of Sogra. It was almost certain that, as an official expedition... if indeed, that was what it was; that the German girl and her companions would have been met by someone from the aerodrome at Kezhma, just a few kilometres down the river. Lifshen had decided to fly up to Kezhma and take it from there. There was something odd about the whole thing... and he had a score to settle.

He made a telephone call to the aerodrome at Kansk, and arranged for one of their U-2 biplanes be made available for an important NKVD flight to Kezhma. He then called Dvorkin to get the camp's ancient GAZ out and drive him to the aerodrome. Dvorkin was to take temporary command of the Kraslag. There was to be no excessive use of punishment imposed upon the Zeki in Lifshen's absence. His regime of suspending the three-cauldron system was paying dividends... the lumber quota for the camp was improving and the mortality rate amongst the Zeki was falling. He didn't anticipate any reversion to the original regime to be imposed by Dvorkin; and if the more thuggish guards wanted a little entertainment. There was always the "BUR"... the "Barak Usilennogo Rezhima"... the Disciplinary barracks; where they could amuse themselves by roughing up one or two of the more homicidally vicious Urki... the professional criminals.

The drive to Kansk was made in almost complete silence. Fredek Dvorkin's newly-found temporary authority was obviously troubling him. Lifshen chose not to make any comment. He was satisfied that his young guard commander was capable of running the Kraslag in his absence.

When they arrived at the aerodrome, the solitary Polikarpov U-2 bi-plane was waiting on the hard standing in front of the hanger. The pilot was rummaging about under the port triangular access panel behind the radial engine, making some final adjustments. Lifshen clambered out of the GAZ and waved Dvorkin away. He walked over to the pilot, whose head was thrust deep inside the space behind the rotary engine, and tapped him on the shoulder. The pilot stepped back, turned, and with a startled look on his face, snapped to attention as he caught sight of Lifshen's blue-topped, red-banded NKVD Furashka. He quickly composed himself, and snapped out his report.

'Comrade Lejtenant Gozbezopasnosti; I am your pilot, Starshina Aviatsii... Senior Sergeant Pavel Umanskii, at your service. The aeroplane is fuelled and ready. If you would care to get aboard, I'll just go and get a coolie to swing the prop.'

Lifshen nodded, and climbed up onto the wing root walkway. There were no foot-kick-ins in the fuselage sides, so it was a case of grabbing the aft port cabane strut which supported the upper wing over the fuselage, and heaving the leg up over the fuselage side into the forward cockpit. Settled in the front seat; Lifshen strapped himself in, and, removing his Furashka; pulled on the leather flying helmet and goggles. The pilot returned with a ground crew Krasnoarmeets... a lowly airman; and climbed into the aft cockpit. Having strapped himself in; the pilot flicked up the magneto switches and gave the Krasnoarmeets at the propeller, the thumbs-up signal. The airman swung the propeller, and surprise, surprise!... the temperamental Shvetsov five-cylinder, radial engine burst into life immediately, with its familiar clattering sound.

As the fuel-rich exhaust smoke whipped back; caught by the increasing prop-wash; the airman pulled the chocks out from the wheels, and ran around the starboard wing tip to hand them up to Lifshen, and told him to stow them under his seat, to one side, so that they would not accidentally obstruct the dual flying control wires. With a wave to the airman; the pilot opened the throttle and taxied out to the single concrete runway. As he turned into the wind, a green lamp flashed from the little control tower. The pilot pushed the throttle lever all the way forward, the engine rattle changed to a teeth-gritting clatter; and the bi-plane began to roll. Within perhaps, twenty metres, the tail was up... within sixty metres, they were airborne.

Pavel Umanskii trimmed her out and settled down for an enjoyable flight. The morning was fine, the flight was straightforward; and the U-2 was a real pilot's plane to fly. She was highly manoeuvrable, yet stable and predictable. It was virtually impossible to spin accidentally, and when in an induced spin, she would pull out on her own when the control surfaces were put into the neutral position. When climbing too steeply, she would not stall, but gently lower her nose to pick up speed again. You could almost fly her in your sleep. OK; so you'd never get a nose-bleed from excessive speed; flat-out, she'd struggle to touch eighty-five knots with a tail wind, and her cruise speed was only sixty knots. What did it matter? This was flying the way it was meant to be. With a smile, Pavel gently turned her nose into the northeast. The flight would take something approaching four hours if he kept the bi-plane at her optimum cruise speed.

Three hours into the flight to Kezhma, Lifshen was beginning to feel drowsy from gazing at the endless green sea of the taiga and the steady, almost motionless pointers of the instruments in the panel in front of him. Even the monotonous clatter of the engine was becoming hypnotic. He glanced up towards the horizon, and was horrified to see a black shape hurtling towards the aeroplane. Instinctively, he ducked, as the perspex windshield in front of him shattered into an explosion of perspex, feathers and blood, and what appeared to be the remains of a large bird hurtled over his head. The bi-plane lurched, and settled back into its leisurely flight. Lifshen strained his neck round to shout something to Pavel Umanskii. He was horrified to see that Umanskii was slumped into his seat and covered with blood. His head lolled at an impossible angle; his face was torn apart by shattered shards of perspex, and his eyes were fixed and staring. The cold hand of fear clutched Lifshen. The carcass of the bird had obviously struck Umanskii full in the face, and broken his neck. Lifshen had seen that frozen expression too many times in the past to hope that his pilot was only unconscious.

Fighting the panic that was building to overwhelm him; Lifshen forced himself to think clearly. The bi-plane was flying straight and level. He had watched the rudder bar pedals and control column movements as Umanskii had gently adjusted the bi-plane's attitude in flight. Surely, it wasn't too difficult to fly. All the instrument pointers were steady. Which were the important ones? To the left of the central panel was the Airspeed indicator. It read fifty-five knots.

Top left was the altimeter. It read three-thousand metres. In the top centre was the Directional Gyro. The scale behind the fixed pointer was steady, and read 0.55... Fifty-five degrees north-east. To the right was the Turn and Slip indicator. The little black ball in the curved glass tube across the bottom of the instrument was central... as was the pointer. Below, were three more instruments. Bottom left was the engine rev counter... not important. Bottom centre was the Artificial Horizon. The fixed miniature wings symbol representing the aeroplane was straight and level with the horizon bar. To the right, was the Rate of Climb indicator. Its pointer was steady at zero.

Gingerly, Lifshen slipped his feet into the rudder pedal straps and grasped the control column. The Directional Indicator rotating scale slowly swung to read 0.60. Lifshen gently pressed on the left rudder pedal, and the scale drifted back to 0.55. He eased back on the control column. The Rate of Climb indicator pointer began to flicker up the scale. Carefully, he pushed forward. The pointer eased back down to zero. Lifshen exhaled slowly. This wasn't too difficult. Landing this aeroplane however would be an entirely different thing. He had heard that these bi-planes could almost land themselves... indeed; one had done just that, according to his contact at the aerodrome at Kansk.

The story was that an old pilot was bringing a replacement U-2 in from the Leningrad Aircraft Plant No. 23, when he suffered a fatal heart attack on approach. It appeared that he just managed to throttle back before he expired. The U-2 gently sank onto the runway, bounced, and ground-looped gently onto the grass, with only minor damage inflicted to a wingtip and the propeller. Lifshen gave a despondent grin. Knowing his luck, he would probably end up splattered all across the landscape.

Half an hour later, Lifshen had managed to get to grips with the controls. He glanced down and saw a road. It must be the one from Bratskoi to Nizhnyaya Rechka on the south bank of the Angara. That was the only real road through this area of the taiga. This meant that he was no more than one hundred-and-thirty kilometres out from Kezhma. He glanced around the cockpit. That must be the throttle lever over on the port side. Carefully, he eased the lever back. The pointer on the rev-counter began to creep back; the nose of the bi-plane began to drop, and the crossbar representing the aeroplane's wings on the Artificial Horizon began to dip below the horizon mark. He gently eased the lever forward and the rev counter pointer and horizon crossbar crept back up to their original readings on the dials, as the horizon resumed its correct position out over the nose of the aeroplane.

Lifshen peered ahead. The blue ribbon of the Angara looped around to the north and then straightened to the east about ten kilometres ahead. Kezhma must be on the north bank opposite the large island that he could just make out. Time to start losing height... hopefully, without ploughing into the canopy of the trees. His mind raced, trying to visualise the control movements he had watched with disinterest for the last three, or so, hours. He should have paid more fucking attention! Was it a gentle push forwards on the control column?... or did he have to ease the throttle back to reduce speed?... or was it a combination of both at the same time? He glanced at the altimeter. It read two-thousand metres... plenty of room to experiment. Tentatively, he reached across and grasped the throttle lever; easing it back along its quadrant. The airspeed indicator pointer began to creep back down the scale, but the altimeter pointer remained stubbornly at two-thousand metres. Oh, well; that didn't work!

He needed to wash off height and speed right now. The Angara was growing larger by the minute. Ok. So, gently push forwards on the control column and ease the throttle back a little more, keeping the rudder pedals stationary. The altimeter began to unwind slowly, the Artificial Horizon crossbar dipped; and the climb and descent indicator pointer began creeping down the scale. So, that was the way to do it!

At an indicated seven-hundred-metres altitude, and an airspeed of fifty knots, Lifshen brought the U-2 in over the Angara. Kezhma lay dead ahead; and about two kilometres to the north, he saw the aerodrome. He grinned. This flying lark was turning out to be a piece of piss. Then he muttered to himself,

'Don't get too fucking cocky, Stanislav Lifshen. You've got to get this bloody thing down in one piece, first... THEN you can be a smug bastard.'

Mladshiy sergant... Junior Sergeant Brody Melnikov was crossing the aerodrome at Kezhma, having just completed his inspection of the runway for debris, when he heard the distant, unmistakeable clatter of the U-2's engine out to the south-west. The clatter was rising and falling... a sure sign that the aircraft was in trouble. Dropping his collecting sack, he sprinted for the control building. Bursting into the control room, he punched the red crash alarm button on the control panel of the controller's table. As the warning klaxon began blasting out its raucous braying alarm; he grabbed a pair of binoculars and ran back out onto the field. Scouring the skies to the south-west, he spotted the bi-plane... very low, and about five kilometres out. He glanced back towards the dilapidated shed that served as the garage for the aerodrome's crash vehicle... an old GAZ AA short-wheelbase truck with a thousand-litres water tank bolted to its flatbed. Two of its crew were frantically swinging the starting handle, trying to get the tired old engine to fire up.

Cursing under his breath Brody Melnikov ran to the shed and grabbed a couple of hand-held fire extinguishers. They wouldn't be very effective if the bi-plane crashed and burned... but they might just hold off the flames for a few precious seconds for the crew to escape... if they survived the initial impact. Sprinting back out towards the runway, he saw to his horror that the bi-plane was coming straight in... downwind; and far too fast.

Brody Melnikov gritted his teeth for the dreadful sounds of splintering wood, tearing fabric; and the almost inevitable, rolling "Whoomph" as the fuel tank exploded. But, it never came. When the U-2 was barely a metre above the concrete, the pilot chopped power and the biplane ghosted in, to land with a gentle squeal as its wheels touched the runway. It swayed a couple of times, and then rolled to a standstill. He raced out to where it had come to rest; noting the limp, blood-spattered figure in the rear cockpit with its head lolling at an impossible angle. The figure in the front cockpit sat rigid; staring unseeingly forwards through the remains of the shattered windscreen.

Brody Melnikov clambered up onto the wing root walkway. The poor bastard in the rear cockpit was dead; the one in the front cockpit sat, as though he had been turned to stone. Then, Melnikov noticed the ominous blue-topped, red-banded NKVD Furashka lying on the floor of the aircraft. Cold caution took over from concern. You never knew how these NKVD svolochi would react in a crisis... and this appeared to be the biggest crisis any aviator would ever encounter... a classic Bird-strike. He reached into the cockpit and unfastened the NKVD officer's seat harness. As he did so; the man started, and snarled,

"Otstan' ot menya!"... 'Get the fuck away from me!'

Melnikov stepped smartly back as the NKVD officer clambered out of the cockpit and jumped shakily down onto the grass. He dragged off his flying helmet and ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. He looked at Melnikov and gave a thin, sheepish grin.

'Sorry about my first reaction Comrade, but I was a little fucked up there for a moment or two.'

Melnikov came smartly to attention as he saw Lifshen's rank.

Well, that was one hell of a solo flight, Comrade Lejtenant Gozbezopasnosti... and a damned good landing!'

Lifshen laughed harshly;

'Solo fucking flight? I've never flown an aeroplane in my life. We had a big bird... a buzzard; I think... that hit us about an hour ago. It missed me but killed my pilot outright. That left me right up shit creek. That wasn't a solo flight. That was fucking self-preservation!'

Melnikov stared at Lifshen.

'Really? Then I reckon you'll need a couple of stiff vodkas, Comrade Lejtenant Gozbezopasnosti. Welcome to Kezhma!'

As they walked away from the bi-plane, the GAZ crash truck came bumping across the grass to take charge of the aeroplane and remove the body of the very dead Starshina Aviatsii... Senior Sergeant Pavel Umanskii.