Chapter Seventeen.

At a little after 06.00 hours, on Wednesday, August 3rd, 1938; Vadim Dolinski eased the throttles levers of TK12 back to "Slow-Ahead-Both," as the first signs of the broken white water approaching the Atalanka rapids appeared, some two-and-a-half kilometres ahead. Already; the mist was gathering at the edges of the tree-lines on both banks, and drifting across his course. Vassili was standing behind him, with his head and shoulders out of the top hatch, peering through the powerful binoculars as he searched for the darker water of the narrow channel that would afford them safe passage through the rushing, shallow rapids.

Vadim and Vassili were bone-tired. They had navigated almost four-hundred kilometres of the Angara through the night; guided only by the woefully inadequate beam of the searchlight on the upper starboard roof shield of the pilot house. Up here, the nights were pitch-black. There had been no moon, and the only respite from the blackness had been the occasional faint flicker of the Northern Lights.

Somehow... and more by good fortune than judgement, they had kept TK12 at an average of thirty knots. Beyond Bratskoi, they would be far enough north that, in the hours after midnight, the sky would be a phosphorescent grey-blue, linen-like backdrop lit from below by a hidden sun, and, depending on the weather conditions; painted, almost continuously by the flickering, dancing curtains of the Northern Lights. This would give them at least some improvement on the cabin searchlight. With luck, they would reach their passengers' dropping-off point at the tiny settlement of Sogra by the evening of the third day.

The previous day; as nightfall approached; the three passengers... the girl, and the two GUGB men had been given the three narrow crew bunks in the cramped cabin forward of the engine room. Laurente had decided to sleep on the narrow shelf beside his engines. He had stuffed cotton wadding into his ears to deaden at least some of the engine noise.

Vassili gave Vadim a tired, wicked smile.

'Time for the wake-up call!'

Vadim grinned;

'Laurente is going to love you, you crazy bastard.'

He watched, as Vassili leaned out of the pilot house forward top hatch, and grasped the cranking handle of the siren mounted on the port roof shield. He began to crank the handle round. The siren... which all the G5 crews called "The Howler," began to emit an ascending wail that quickly turned into a banshee howl, echoing across the waters, and causing great clouds of croaking ravens and screeching cranes to rise from the river banks and forest edges.

The faint sound of cursing filtered up from the engine-room. Vadim glanced at Vassili with an admonishing grin.

'Now you're in the shit. He really doesn't sound too bright, this morning.'

Vassili grinned;

'Serve the old asshole right for bedding down, cuddling a full vodka bottle. He's probably still "p'yan v stél'ku"... pissed as a fart!'

The aft engine room hatch banged open, and Laurente appeared, squinting blearily at the daylight. He caught sight of Vassili, still cranking "The Howler," and snarled:

'I wish to sleep; and the next person who disturbs me will be fucking shot... bang-bang. Finished. Dead!'

Vassili released the crank handle, and the siren's wail began to subside.

'Morning; you old "dolboyob." A touch of the distiller's asthma this morning? You look as rough as a "gol/uboy s gemorróy"... a poof with haemorrhoids!'

Laurente threw him a dirty look.

'Don't worry; you'll get yours, you skinny bastard.'

He turned, and shouldered back down into the engine-room. Suddenly, there came the unmistakable echo of one of his celebrated, reverberating, thunderous farts; swiftly followed by the sound of the engine-room ventilation fans starting up. As fresh air was sucked in through the ventilation cowls on the forward deck, a wave of putrid intestinal gas wafted up through the hatch into the pilot cabin. Vadim and Vassili shrank back; wincing at the disgusting smell. Quickly; Vassili threw open the top hatches, as Laurente re-emerged; a great grin on his face. Vadim grimaced.

'You foul-assed old bastard; I suppose you think that's funny.'

Laurente grinned, and sniggered;

'What's the problem?'

He sniffed the air in the cramped pilot house, and made a sweeping flourish with his arms.

'A veritable symphony of vitamins dance upon the air this bright morning, my children!'

Vadim and Vassili glared at him. Vadim looked Laurente up and down, and burst out:

'What the fuck were you eating last night? A fart like that could paralyse a fully-grown elk at fifty paces! Stick a cork up your ass!'

Vassili said, sourly,

'Stalin's secret weapon; "The human champagne bottle." Turns his back on the enemy, and wipes out whole regiments at a fart.'

Vadim wrinkled his nose.

'A whole regiment? More like a whole bloody civilisation. For Christ's sake, Laurente; if you want to let another one off, go and hang your arse out over the stern. Our guests will be surfacing shortly.'

Laurente laughed;

'Then, let that be a lesson to you, my children. Don't take the piss out of your elders!

No sooner had he spoken; than Anton appeared from below; followed by Sacha. He wrinkled his nose.

'What the fuck is that smell? Has something died in here?'

Vadim laughed;

'No; that's just Laurente passing comment on Vassili's wake-up call, with his usual flatulent panache!'

Anton grinned; allowed Sacha to come up through the hatch past him; then, turned his back, and let go with a great, meaty trombone of a fart down into the engine room. His grin became even broader.

'Two can play at that game, Tovarishch; wrap that one up and take it to the Captain with my compliments!'

He paused, and glanced at Vadim.

'Where's the crapper on this tub? I'm busting for a piss.'

Vadim glanced at him, ruefully.

'Sorry Comrade; no heads on this old girl. You'll have to hang it out over the stern like the rest of us, I'm afraid... and try not to sprinkle the Dural... the uric acid corrodes the hull.'

Anton looked askance.

'Same course of action for a crap, I suppose?'

Vadim nodded.

'When the lady comes up, we'll pull into the bank if she needs to go. Sorry about this; but this isn't exactly a pleasure cruiser, you know.'

Vadim eased back the throttle levers to slow TK12 a little, as Anton and Sacha relieved themselves over the stern. As they gazed out over the Angara... trying to avert their eyes from each other's equipment... as is the usual custom between men in these situations; the morning mist was rising above the forest and the top-most limbs of pine and spruce were shining in the sun's rays. It was a beautiful morning. As he gazed around, Anton spotted what appeared to be a deer swimming in the river off to the starboard side. As TK12 approached; sure enough, it was a wild deer, which, upon seeing the roaring, silver creature; turned for shore, and eventually darted up the bank and into the cover of the dense forest.

The breeze carried a hint of autumn freshness, blowing through the surrounding forest, picking up the scent of spruce and birch sap. Here the river was half-a-kilometre wide, mirroring a picturesque scene of drifting clouds and a deep, sapphire sky. The breeze was stirring the Angara's silky, sapphire-blue into pools of rippling silver. White-boled birches covered the hills; while, along the ridges, shaggy spruces and spindly larches stood crooked against the sky.

As they stood, admiring the view; Karyn came up into the pilot house. Vadim thought she looked particularly beautiful this morning; her golden hair was slightly ruffled, due to the fact that there were no mirrors aboard TK12, and she had been forced to make do with the tiny vanity mirror she carried in her purse. She smiled, hesitantly.

'Is there a lavatory on board?'

Vadim smiled back.

'No; but we will be able to pull over to the bank in about half-a-kilometre. Then, it's into the woods, I'm afraid.'

She nodded, and stood, gazing at the unbroken blanket of forest covering the loping hills. Vadim reached forward into the locker below the steering gear, rummaged, and brought out a roll of lavatory paper. He smiled again.

'None of that arse-grating, mashed birch chippings rubbish for you, Madame. This is American Waldorf tissue. We found a packing case of the stuff floating in the Kara Sea a couple of months ago. Only the best for the Yenisei patrol boys!'

He handed the roll to Karyn and closed the throttles, guiding TK12 towards the right bank of the river. As the starboard gunwale gently bumped against the bank; he eased the gear selectors into "Astern" and fed in a small amount of throttle to keep the cutter stationary in the river current. Vassili was already at the gun mount, and swinging the heavy machine-gun towards the forest edge.

Sacha jumped off onto the bank, and held out his arms for Karyn to follow him. Vassili called after him.

'Keep your side-arm handy. The forests are full of bears, wolves, and lynx; and "Dushka," here, is not renowned for being a surgical instrument! She's OK for chopping down trees... but precision stuff... forget it!'

Sacha nodded, and walked towards the forest edge. When he was about ten metres out; he stopped, and drew his Nagant. Karyn walked on, and disappeared into the curtain of birches. A few minutes later, she returned. They began to walk back towards the boat. They had covered about twenty metres, when suddenly Vassili shouted a warning. Quickly turning, Sacha brought up his pistol.

The figure had appeared, as if, from out of nowhere. He stood at the edge of the forest, unmoving, and staring at them. He wore a long, blue robe with what could only be described as black and white, pelt "snakes" hanging from his shoulders to the ground. He wore a large, grotesque mask of hide, or wood; embellished with an enormous beard; and a headdress of some sort of iron cap sprouting iron antlers. He carried a whip and a single-headed, animal-skin drum, which resembled a shield.

Karyn and Sacha stood, and stared at him. They had never seen anything like it. Vassili's shout, and the harsh sound of the machine-gun charging handle being wrenched back, broke the quiet, morning air.

'Run! He's a "Karain Bö"... a Buryat Black Shaman! He's bloody dangerous... Run!

As they turned to run; the figure began chanting in some totally unintelligible language, while performing some sort of dance and beating his drum with the butt of his whip. Karyn and Sacha raced back across the open ground, and jumped onto the upper hull of TK12, as Vadim slammed the gear lever into "Ahead" and thrust the throttle levers forward. With muddy water boiling out from her stern, TK12 sped out into mid-stream, with a white-faced Vassili still training the machine-gun on the gesticulating figure at the edge of the forest.

As TK12 began to rise up onto her planing-step as her speed increased, Vassili came down out of the rear hatch. His face was still white, and his hands were shaking. Vadim glanced at him.

'What the hell was that all about?'

Vassili glanced around, nervously.

'Anyone got a smoke?

Anton held out a pack of "Red Star," the special brand reserved for members of the NKVD and other important Soviet citizens.

'Here; have these. Then tell us what the hell that was.'

Vassili took the pack, pulled a cigarette out; stuck it between his lips, and lit it. Dragging the smoke deep into his lungs, he began to speak.

'The Buryat Black Shamans... the "Karain Bö" are dangerous people. They have the power to harm or even kill others by calling down curses on them. Black Shamans are the most powerful of all the Shamans. They are Warrior Shamans, and overcome evil by battling might with might. A Shaman's role is to protect his clan from evil spirits, just as the warrior in the clan is responsible for protecting the people from more substantial enemies. We have probably been seen as being exactly that... their enemies. That one has just put a curse on us. As to why... probably because we threatened those fishermen who were taking pot-shots at us on the way down from Bratskoi; and, besides which; the Buryats aren't too fond of strangers, anyway.'

Laurente had come up from the engine room and listened as Vassili spoke. He snorted;

"Vy zakonchili s etim der'mom? ... Have you finished with that shit? You'll have me so scared I'll be pissing my panties if you keep on!'

Vassili glared at him. Vadim spoke sharply.

'Stop taking the piss, Laurente. Vassili knows about these things. So, let's get the hell out of here.'

The river banks were beginning to gather height. Within a couple of kilometres, they became sheer and cliff-like... and the river was narrowing. The Atalanka rapids were only a few kilometres ahead. They were only about an hour and a half out of Bratskoi. There were few signs of civilisation around here; nothing but the dense, brooding forests creeping right down to the river banks which were starting to increase in height as TK12 approached the section where the long, running gorge with spectacular cliffs that rose up to one hundred metres vertically from the river edges reminding them that they were nearing the rapids. Vadim began to ease back on the throttle levers. The crackle of the exhaust diminished as TK12 came down off her planing step and settled into the water. Even on tick-over, the knot meter indicated fifteen knots... much too fast to negotiate the rapids safely.

Laurente had made his way up to the bow; ready to start looking for the channel. Running the gauntlet of these rapids needed care... as they had discovered on the journey up-river. Hitting a rock at any sort of speed would quite possibly puncture the dural hull. He was already lying flat on the curved, forward decking; searching for the darker water.

Vadim pulled the throttle levers shut, and pushed the gear selector levers into "Astern." He began easing the throttle levers forward again; gently feeding power into the reversing propellers. He felt the speed slacken, and watched the knot-meter needle creeping down. Five knots should be safe; taking into account the river flow.

On the bow, Laurente was searching for the channel. The exhaust note had subsided to a low burble, and the sound of the white water over the rapids was becoming louder. Above that; all that could be heard were the croaks of ravens, and the screams of russet hawks somewhere out in the forest. To realise that this forest stretched unbroken to the Arctic, and from the Pacific to Scandinavia, brought home the sheer scale of Siberia. According to a Siberian proverb, the Devil made the forest, and The Devil did an exemplary job; his forest was as big as the entire United States of America.

Twenty metres ahead, the shimmering sapphire blue of the river broke into white water spreading from bank to bank. Where the hell was the channel? Laurente was chopping his right hand towards the bank. Vadim began turning the wheel gently; ready to react to any signal Laurente made. His left hand came out, with a slower chopping movement. Vadim fed in a little port rudder, and TK12 straightened; nosing into the channel. The white water was gathering pace as it tumbled over the half-concealed rocks and shoals, swirling and eddying in the choppy channel water.

Carefully; with her propellers still churning in reverse, TK12 eased down through the channel of the Atalanka rapids. Vadim was concentrating hard; feeding in tiny adjustments to the rudders, when suddenly, TK12 jolted to a grinding, screeching standstill. Laurente was almost pitched over the bow as the cutter ground onto a gravel-bar that simply hadn't been there when they came up-river three days ago. Vadim banged the throttle levers all the way back, and felt the hull begin to shudder as the twin V12 engines wound up to full torque. The water boiled around the stern as the propellers tried, in vain, to drag TK12 off the gravel-bar. Laurente came back down the forward decking, cursing loudly...

"Chyort poberi!" ... "Promudobl'adsksya pizdopro'ebina!"

Anton and Sacha came up from below, followed by Karyn. Anton looked at Vadim.

'Problem?'

Vadim nodded;

'You could say that. We've hit a shoal. She's grounded. It's get out and push time, I'm afraid.'

Anton nodded. He and Sacha jumped down into the rapids, followed by Laurente and Vassili. Karyn began to remove her shoes; intending to follow them. Vadim caught her arm.

'Stay here. Leave it to them. If you want to make yourself useful, get up behind the gun and train it onto the right bank. The Buryats are out there somewhere. If they appear, and look as though they are about to try something, just aim high into the trees and press the triggers. She's cocked, and ready to go.'

Karyn nodded, and moved to the rear of the pilot house; taking up position behind the gun, which she swung round and out to starboard.

Vadim stuck his head out of the forward hatch, and shouted,

'Ready? I'm going to give her full throttle, so push like hell!'

He slammed the throttle levers right up to the stops, while the other four heaved their shoulders into the bow. The exhaust note rose, roaring and crackling across the waters, echoing into the forest. With a grinding, scraping sound, TK12 began to move imperceptibly off the gravel-bar. Suddenly, she freed herself. Laurente went sprawling into the water; the others managed to retain their feet.

Vadim reversed upstream for about twenty metres, and eased the throttles back, until TK12 was stationary against the current. The others clambered aboard, dripping and cursing. As they did so, three figures appeared at the forest edge. One raised an old shotgun and fired. Laurente wasn't quite quick enough. They heard him yell,

"Yobany stos!" ... 'Fuck!'

Then, he was limping towards the cover of the port side of the pilot house, where Vassili reached down and grabbed his arms; dragging him aboard.

Peering out to starboard, they saw the figure appear to be reloading his weapon. Vadim slammed the throttles forward; and, as TK12 surged towards the mouth of the channel; their ears were buffeted by the deafening, calico-tearing sound of the DShK opening up as Karyn pressed the dual triggers. The figures at the tree line threw themselves flat; hugging the earth as the stream of 12·7mm shells slashed into the foliage above their heads; spattering them with shredded branches.

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TK12 slammed into the hidden gravel-shoal and lurched over its crest, with the screaming, partly exposed propellers showering gravel up into the air. Then they were through. Vadim held the speed; chancing that there would be clear water down the remainder of the channel, as Anton and Sacha dragged Laurente down through the forward hatch. He waved his fist at the figure on the bank.

"Horosho strelyaesh, Lihach!"... Nice shooting, Hotshot!… The bastard's peppered my arse!

Everyone burst out laughing. It was obvious that Laurente was not badly wounded, and had only collected a few stray pellets in his left buttock. He was singularly unimpressed by this lack of communal sympathy. He snarled; to no-one in particular;

"Idi nakhuy sami"!... 'Go, fuck yourself!'

Karyn came down into the cramped pilot house. She looked at the spots of blood soaking through Laurente's overalls, and said to Vadim,

'Where do you keep the first-aid kit?'

Vadim pointed to the locker on the starboard wall. Laurente glowered at her.

'If you think you're going to start poking about in my arse, you've got another think coming, Lyubimaya!'

Karyn looked at him.

'Don't think, for one minute I'm going to enjoy looking at your hairy buttocks, Comrade Laurente Gura; but those pellets need to come out, otherwise you could get blood poisoning. Just get your Bolshevik arse down onto the rest bunk. The sooner we do it, the sooner it's finished.'

Laurente stared at her. He saw the look in her bright, blue eyes, and knew it wouldn't be any use trying to argue. He looked around for support, and found none. With a sigh, he disappeared down into the forward cabin. Karyn opened the first-aid kit. It was typically rudimentary. A few shell dressings, gauze; burn dressings, bandages; Morphine ampoules, and a bottle of Iodine. There were no instruments.

She glanced at Vadim. He shrugged.

'We normally use a combat knife to dig out bullets and odd bits of shrapnel, after we've rammed the broken end of a Morphine ampoule into the injured limb, or whatever. It's only a basic combat kit.'

Karyn nodded, and picked up her purse. She rummaged about, and brought out her eyebrow tweezers and a nail file. She made to duck down through the forward hatch. Vassili caught her arm. She turned, and saw he was holding out a bottle of vodka. He grinned;

'You'd better get the grumpy old svoloch oiled up with this, before you start digging around. I guarantee it'll make things go a lot smoother.'

Karyn sighed; took the bottle, and disappeared. Vadim glanced at Vassili, and the others; waiting for the explosion of nerve-shredding profanity.

She found Laurente face-down on the rest bunk, with his overalls pulled down to his knees. He was very quiet. She handed him the vodka bottle, expecting him to start swilling it down. He didn't even open it. She examined his left buttock, counting at least a dozen little bloody punctures. She spoke, reassuringly.

'It's not too bad, Laurente; but, it's going to hurt when I dig the pellets out.'

She began to spread the flesh around the first puncture gently with her fingers to tauten it, before she started probing with the point of the nail file. Laurente glance over his shoulder at her.

'Maybe, I should get Vadim to turn this tub around. I reckon I owe that Buryat a drink. It's not every day I get a pretty blonde stroking my ass!'

Karyn smiled.

'There's not much wrong with you, Tovarishch; now shut up, and let me get on with it.'

Ten minutes later, all the pellets were out. Laurente hadn't made a sound as she probed and tweezered the shot out of his buttock. She reached for the Iodine.

'This is going to sting. I'm sorry, but there's no other way to make sure that the wounds won't get infected.'

She dabbed the punctures with an Iodine-soaked, gauze pad. Laurente nearly hit the roof.

"Zaebis!"... 'Holy Fuck!'

He looked abashed.

"Pros`tite"... 'Sorry.'

She smiled, and gently slapped his right buttock.

"Khoroshiy moy malchik"... Good boy. You'll be all right now. You can pull your pants back up.'

TK12's Torpedist, Burian Komarovski lay on a grubby chaise-longue in the dingy room that served as the salon of the seedy brothel in Polikchava Lane back at Bratskoi cradled by the pretty young whore, Antonina Morozov. She was frantically pressing a blood-soaked towel against the gaping gash in his neck, vainly trying to staunch the blood that gouted from his severed jugular artery. Two hours earlier; he had strolled into the brothel and paid his Roubles to the ugly, fat Madam who sat behind a counter, awaiting customers for her girls. She had looked him up and down; and recognising his uniform overalls as being Northern fleet; had wobbled to her feet, and snarled,

'Any trouble from you, and I'll call in the NKVD. Komissar Somov will smash your drunken face in and make you cough blood.'

Burian was taken completely off-guard at this tirade, and replied,

'Piss off, you old cow. Line up the girls, and let me get on with the mattress polka.'

The fat Madam's pale eyes flashed deep in the rolls of fat, and a couple of stray hairs sprouting from a mole on her chin bristled like the whiskers of a psychotic cat. She pulled a long police baton from its hiding place under the counter, and smacked Burian across the face with it. Instinctively, he punched her straight in the face. She went down with a crash that shook the ceiling.

Stepping over the unconscious Madam; Burian strolled into the salon of the establishment and greeted the girls. He was instantly surrounded by admiring whores vying for his attentions. He chose a pretty, young, eighteen-year old who said her name was Antonina. She was wearing nothing more than a sheer négligée, black stockings; a scarlet suspender belt, and stiletto heels. Grabbing a bottle of Black Sea champagne and two glasses, Burian followed the girl upstairs.

Later… much later; with Antonina curled up against him in the great, soft bed; Burian was idly musing that perhaps, he should not go back to the dock to meet TK12. He glanced at the pretty girl beside him. He could become her protector, if…

A stealthy noise outside the door brought him back to reality. He carefully moved Antonina's arm from across his chest and slipped out of her embrace. She stirred; and he put a hushing finger to his lips as he carefully approached the door. Very softly, he turned the doorknob and wrenched the door open. He had a fleeting glimpse of a large, menacing figure; the bright flash of metal; and felt a sharp, burning sensation on the side of his neck. He staggered backwards. Everything was going dark. He vaguely heard Antonina scream… and then, there was nothing but blackness washing over him.

When the local Militsiya … an old policeman, eventually arrived, Burian was dead in Antonina's arms. She told the old policeman everything that she had seen, despite the threatening looks from the fat Madam. The attacker was the brothel enforcer and pimp… Feodor Cheremisinov. He was almost certainly working under the fat Madam's orders. He had used a "Kandra"... a Siberian knife, sharpened on both edges of the blade, and resembling a long butcher's knife... but with a much stronger blade. It was said that used properly, a single stroke from a Kandra could behead its victim.

The policeman wrote everything down and said he would arrange for Burian's body to be collected. He ordered the fat Madam not to leave the brothel. She was under house arrest. When he had departed; Antonina was dragged down to the cellars by the Madam's other pimp, and whipped to a pulp. Then, she was left there to rot, as a warning to the other girls not to breathe a word about what had occurred that day.

At about 09.00 hrs on the morning of Wednesday, 3rd August; Torpedo cutter TK12 eased alongside the mole of Bratskoi anchorage. The trip down-river had been uneventful after the fun at the Atalanka rapids. As Vadim eased the throttles closed, he expected to see his torpedist Burian waiting by the two torpedoes on the mole. They were still there; firmly tarpaulined down; but there was no sign of Burian. Laurente came up from the engine room, and glanced around.

'Where is the little sod? They're all the same; these "bl'adki"... fuck-session warriors. Give his best friend a new fur collar, and he's lost all sense of time and occasion!'

Vadim nodded.

'You're probably right. Let's get the derrick erected, and winch in the Torps.'

As the first torpedo was being winched into the stern-well, the old, local Militsiya turned up. He beckoned to Vadim, and began speaking quietly to him. The story of Burian's misfortune was explained. As Vadim was questioning the old man, a burly man appeared at the far end of the mole and sauntered threateningly along the first twenty or so metres. The man paused, and threw down a burlap sack. He shouted, in a taunting voice.

'Here's your buddy's junk. Madam Gavrikov's house is off-limits to you fucking Navy "dolboy'ebi" from here on in.'

He turned, and as he did so; gave the sign of a clenched fist with the thumb protruding between the first and second fingers… the so-called "Figa"; the Russian equivalent of the American obscene "middle-finger" or the English "Two Fingers" gesture. Vadim looked at the old policeman.

'So who's that "Pidaras"… asshole?'

The old policeman gave Vadim a scared look.

'That's Cheremisinov; the enforcer of the brothel where your pal copped it. The say that he did it, but there is no solid proof…'

Vadim jumped up onto the mole and started after Cheremisinov. He shouted…

'Hey, you.'

Cheremisinov stopped, and glanced over his shoulder. He gave the "figa" again, and yelled back…

"Hooy tebe v zhopu… Pidor!"... 'Prick up your arse... asshole!'

Vadim felt a presence behind him. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Anton standing on the mole in full uniform. Cheremisinov saw him too; and began running. Anton merely shouted two words after the running thug… "Stoj ktol!"... "Halt Immediately!" Cheremisinov kept running. Anton made a signal to the boat. Vadim heard the familiar, ominous sound of the DShK charging handle being pulled back. He turned, and saw Vassili swing the heavy machine gun round in the direction of the running man. Anton raised his right arm, and shouted again… "Stoj ktol!"

Cheremisinov kept running. Anton dropped his arm, and the vicious tearing-calico sound of the DShK rolled and echoed across the anchorage as Vassili opened up. The stream of armour-piercing bullets hosed across the mole at six-hundred-rounds-a-minute; no more than about fifteen centimetres above the roadway, due to the height of the mole above river level. The first burst took Cheremisinov in the legs and chopped his feet away just above his ankles. Shrieking, he kept running on his steaming, bloody stumps. The second burst stitched up his back; splattering his guts across the far end of the mole. His lifeless carcass crashed to the ground and was still. The old policeman stood; shocked, and white-faced. Anton looked hard at him.

'Write it up as a suspected wrecker observed prowling around these two stored torpedoes. Don't forget to add that the GUGB Officer… that's me... twice ordered him to halt. He ignored the warnings, and was shot while attempting to escape.'

The old policeman nodded.

'Yes, Comrade; that's exactly how it happened. At least that's one less "zhopa" I have to worry about.'

Anton nodded.

'Anything to help, old man. Now tell me; where is this brothel where the crewman was killed? I need to pay it a visit. From what you told Senior Lieutenant-technician Dolinski; it would seem this establishment is a hot-bed of "Political errors"; and such-like.'

The old Militsiya gave Anton a knowing look.

'It's the third house on the right in Polikchava Lane, Comrade. The Madam is a vicious old cow named Lidmila Gavrikov. She really mistreats her girls, but I've never managed to get a complaint from any one of them. She really does deserve whatever she'll get from you.'

Anton smiled grimly.

'Don't worry. She'll get what's coming to her.'

He turned; and walked back to Vadim.

'It might be a good idea to get the torpedoes loaded quickly, and be ready to leave as soon as I return.'

Vadim stared at him.

'But, what about Burian?'

As he jumped down onto the deck of TK12, Anton said,

'You can always send a truck to bring his body back to your base. The old Militsiya said the local Political Officer wants to conduct a thorough investigation, and won't release the body until that's been completed, anyway.'

He ducked down into the pilot house and spoke to Karyn.

'Could you let me borrow the Nagant? I have some unfinished business to attend to down in the settlement.'

Karyn stared at him; then, without a word went down into the forward crew quarters, and returned, a few moments later with the weapon and holster. Anton was already taking off his uniform. He accepted the holster; removed the revolver, and screwed one of the "Bramit" suppressors into the barrel. He shoved the weapon into his trousers waistband, and put on his un-badged greatcoat. Then, with a grim smile, he threw his GUGB Furashka into a corner; clambered out of the top hatch onto the deck, and called to the old Militsiya.

'OK, Grandpa; now show me where this Polikchava Lane is.'

Vadim watched them walk back down the mole, and turned to Laurente and Vassili. They were very quiet. Vassili was shaking. He had never seen what the DShK's 12·7 mm rounds could actually do to a human body. Laurente seemed lost for words as he gazed at the bloody ruin sprawled at the far end of the mole. Vadim's voice raised them from their shocked silence.

'You heard what Anton said. Let's get these bloody torps on board. There's no chance of refuelling from shore now. Get the drums emptied into the tanks. There should be enough there to get us back home; allowing for a refuelling stop at Bogutchansk… provided the locals haven't stolen what was left of the stockpile.'

Anton turned into Polikchava Lane, and paused. The old Militsiya pointed to a large, pale green house some fifty-metres down the grubby, unpaved lane. Anton nodded, and told the old policeman to make himself scarce. With a scared glance, the old man nodded and hurried away.

Anton approached the house, and walked unconcernedly into what could be loosely called, the reception. The fat Madam looked up from her perch behind the counter. Her hard, beady black eyes assessed this new potential customer. As she opened her mouth to speak, Anton interrupted her.

'You are Lidmila Gavrikov? You are denounced as having complicity in the murder in this establishment, of "Starshina"... Junior Sergeant Burian Komarovski of the Yenisei Patrol Cutter TK12. What have you to say in your defence?'

Lidmila Gavrikov glared at this little stranger. Who the fuck did he think he was talking to? She pressed a concealed bell button under the counter to summon her enforcer, Cheremisinov. He would show this little "Mudak" that you didn't come in here, throwing your weight around and get away with it.

Nothing happened. The little stranger waited for something like a count of ten, and then spoke. His voice was icy.

'Your silence affirms your guilt. Wilful murder of a member of the Soviet Armed Forces carries the Death Penalty…'

The silenced Nagant appeared in his hand. He cocked the weapon with his thumb, and gave a grim smile.

'There is no appeal. Your complicity is proven.'

… and squeezed the trigger.

A muffled "Phut" broke the weighty silence in the reception hall. Lidmila Gavrikov was hurled backwards off her chair with a neat hole in the centre of her forehead. Blood, bone, and brain matter splattered the wall behind her, and slowly trickled to the floor. Anton turned, and strode to the salon. He saw four girls in various states of undress; lounging on divans, waiting for customers. Their eyes fell upon the silenced Nagant he held in his hand, and their faces froze with fear. Glancing around the salon, Anton spoke.

'Lidmila Gavrikov has been found guilty of complicity in the murder of a member of the Soviet Armed Forces, and has been executed… as has the pimp and enforcer of this house, Feodor Cheremisinov. You are now free to leave this place if you so wish…'

He was interrupted by one of the girls.

'We can't, Comrade. The other pimp, Yakov is down in the cellar, whipping Antonina Morozov again. She was the one who blew the whistle on the killing, and he's been raping and whipping her for three days, now. He'll hunt us down and kill us if we try to leave…'

Her voice trailed off as she saw the cold expression in Anton's eyes. In an icily calm voice, he said she should show him the way down to the cellar. As they carefully descended the dim, narrow stairway, Anton asked the girl how she came to be in this place. She replied that she had been abducted from a village to the east called Sokina, when she was fifteen. She had been beaten, raped, and starved into submission by Cheremisinov and Yakov; and had been servicing the brothel's customers for the past six years. Anton asked whether all the girls had been obtained this way. The girl nodded; saw the stony expression on Anton's face, and shivered.

At the bottom of the stairway she paused, and touched Anton's arm. She pointed to a door at the end of a dimly lit, short passage. Anton didn't need telling; he could hear the crack of the whip from where he stood. Cocking the Nagant, he moved carefully to the door. He again heard the swish and crack of the whip, and a pitiful scream. Bracing himself, he kicked the door open.

Yakov stood in the middle of the room, stark naked, and sexually aroused, judging by the impressive erection he was sporting; with a vicious, short Cossack whip raised in his hand. He spun round to face Anton as the Nagant plopped twice. The bullets hit him in both knee-caps, punching the splintering bone out through the backs of his legs; and he collapsed screaming. Anton contemplated the grim scene before him… the blood-stained, Cossack whip; the naked Antonina; hanging by her wrists from a short, blood-stained, hemp rope tied to a meat-hook in a ceiling beam; with her back and buttocks; breasts, belly, and thighs torn and wealed from her whippings. Anton held the screaming Yakov's eyes with a long, cold stare and meticulously put a bullet into each of his shoulder joints. He then walked across the grimy, blood-spattered flagstone floor and kicked him hard in the testicles. Now, the girls could do whatever they liked with the helpless, sadistic little svoloch.

He cut Antonina Morozov down, and told the other girl who stood there, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, to take her upstairs and care for her. Leaving Yakov writhing and shrieking; he turned, and followed them up to the salon, where he told the remaining girls of Yakov's plight. With an evil smile, one of the girls quietly reached across the rudimentary bar and picked up a long, serrated fruit-peeling knife. Another deliberately smashed several champagne flutes and handed the jagged stems around. He saw the look in their eyes, and quietly shivered. A few gunshot wounds and a kick in the balls were probably nothing, compared with what the gruesome fate that now awaited the crippled pimp would be at the hands of the girls he had helped to mistreat.

Quickly, he made his way back to the mole, and tossed the Bramit suppressor into the water. His identity was secure… all that the girls at the brothel would be able to say was, that an avenging angel had come into that place and destroyed their tormentors. By the time the search began; the "avenging angel" would be many kilometres away down the Angara. As he came onto the mole, he saw a black GAZ van, and two NKVD sergeants talking to Karyn. He approached, and heard them talking deferentially to her. So, she had obviously used her Special Section OO-GUGB Identity card. As he came to the group, she called him over, and introduced him to the NKVD men.

'Comrades; this is Praporshchik Nikolin; GUGB. Fifth Directorate, Moscow…'

She saw the two NKVD sergeants glance warily at each other and imperceptibly stand straighter to attention. She continued…

'He has been out in the settlement investigating this incident. Any leads, Anton?'

Anton replied,

'Not a lot, Comrade Doktor. It seems the suspect was the pimp and enforcer for a low-class brothel in Polikchava Lane. His name was Cheremisinov. A nasty piece of work, by all accounts.'

One of the sergeants wrote down the name in his pocketbook. He turned to Karyn.

'Leave it with us, Comrade Senior Major of State Security. We will be happy to tie up the loose ends for you.'

With the bloody remains of the pimp Cheremisinov dumped unceremoniously in the back of their van; the two NKVD sergeants crashed in the gears and drove away. Anton and Karyn turned, and hurried to where TK12 was berthed alongside the mole. The torpedoes were secure in their stern-wells, and Laurente was just draining the dregs of fuel from the last of the two-hundred-litre fuel drums. The engines were already quietly ticking over. They jumped down onto the deck and squeezed down through the top hatch into the pilot house. Handing the Nagant back to Karyn, he put his hand on Vadim's shoulder.

'Burian's account is settled in full, and this place is minus the three scum involved. Now, let's get the hell out of here before they realise what's happened.'

Vadim nodded; shouted to Vassili to cast-off, and eased open the throttles. With a smooth rumble of engines, TK12 moved away from the mole and headed out into the Angara. By the time the local NKVD sergeants, and their boss, Mladshyi Lejtenant Gozbezopasnosti... Junior Lieutenant of State Security, Maksim Lempitski had sorted themselves out; TK12 would be well downstream, and approaching the long, right-hand bend in the river where they had fouled the propeller and rammed the river bank during the upstream trip.

Vassili Levkova was the first to break the silence.

'I told you that "Karain Bö"... that Buryat Black Shaman had put a curse on us back at the Atalanka rapids; but would you believe me?... Oh, No. Now Laurente has collected an arse full of buckshot, and Burian is dead. Perhaps, you'll listen to me next time, and not be so ready to take the piss.'

Vadim looked at his young navigator/gunner.

'OK Vassili; so tell us about these bloody Shamans.'

Vassili looked at him sullenly.

'You'll only start taking the piss again...'

Vadim interrupted him.

'Look; you obviously have some deep belief in these things. So, tell us. We might need to be a bit more cautious if what you say has any real truth in it, and is not just superstition.

Vassili looked around the ring of faces suspiciously; then began to speak.

'All I know is what my grandfather told me. He was a hunter up here in the twenties. He told me that the Evenki attributed the explosion of 1908 to a great shaman called Magankan. It seems that there is not a single Tungus among the ten clans of Ilimpiya who has not heard about how Magankan wanted to punish the spirits that resisted submission to his "Khargi"... the spirit that has considerable influence on the shaman, especially during his shamanic sessions, and gives instructions to the shaman. This spirit abided in his body. He got those present to shoot directly at him with a rifle. He then caught the bullet when it came out of his body and showed it to all the people present. Magankan also stabbed a knife to his chest with all his force, but no wound and no blood could be found.

The Tungus have only one expression for the thunder... Agdy; by which they also describe the old man, the Lord of the Thunder as well as all the Thunderbirds that come down to earth and cause the thunder. The Agdy birds are as big as black grouses, are made of iron, and their eyes are fiery. The thunder arises from their flight above the earth and their eyes flash like lightning.

Some old shamans were great friends of the thunder, and this friendship has passed to their descendants. That is why any wicked shaman can call the Agdy in order to do harm to a group of people he hates or even to a whole clan.

For a long time, there had been tribal feuds between a group of Tungus clans in the basin of the Stony Tunguska and clans living along the right tributaries of the Lower Tunguska. Eventually, this hostility resulted in the shamans sending their evil spirits against each other to cause diseases. Then one of the shamans called the Agdy to destroy the hated enemies.

In the early morning of the 30th June, 1908, a huge flock of Agdy were called by the shaman Magankan. They flew down upon the grounds of the Shanyagir clan and brought disaster to many families of the Shanyagir: Tents flew into the air, higher than the forest, and the people sleeping inside suffered from bruises and broken bones. Tungus' dogs and reindeer were killed. The storage platforms with bread and equipment were destroyed; the forest was flattened within a few seconds to an expanse of approximately ten thousand square kilometres in the catchment areas of the rivers Chamba, Zhilushmo, and Kushmo.

The inhabitants of that part of the taiga fled in panic in all directions, leaving every last one of their belongings behind. All this is blamed on the Agdy.

The Buryat Black Shamans... the "Karain Bö" are even more powerful than these Evenki Shamans. They are Warrior Shamans, and protect their clan from evil spirits. It seems that we are Evil spirits in their eyes, and that is why that "Karain Bö" put a curse on us.'

Laurente had come up from the engine room during Vassili's tale, and stood quietly; listening to this old folklore. He grinned, apologetically.

'Sorry Vassili, I didn't mean to poke fun at you. It's just that I don't really believe in curses.'

Vassili nodded his acceptance of this apology, and the subject was closed.

Vadim thought he had better check the contents of the burlap bag that the pimp Cheremisinov had thrown down onto the mole back at Bratskoi. He emptied it out onto the chart table. He sighed. Torpedist Burian Komarovski's worldly possessions. A crumpled packet of Machorka cigarettes; an old and battered American "Zippo" lighter; his eight-sided, black bakelite identity tube which contained the long, narrow form upon which the standard nineteen entries served as his Identification document, containing Date of Birth, Unit; Next of kin, etc; and a solid gold St. Andrew Cross with Blue Enamel inlay, set with diamonds... the Russian Orthodox "Starovery"... "Old Believer's" cross. It was obviously very valuable, and probably a family heirloom.

Vadim was surprised that the pimp Cheremisinov had not stolen it; but then, most Russians were still deeply religious, in spite of Stalin's anti-religious campaigns throughout the 1920's and 1930's. There were also two much-read letters and a single dog-eared photograph of a pretty, blonde girl. Not much to show; although there was probably more back at base. However, the svolochi at the brothel had emptied Burian's wallet of the few Roubles he possessed.

Angry at the stealing of Burian's money, Vadim glanced out of the starboard windows. One the right bank he saw a wolf-pack keeping pace with TK12, like a gathering of blue-grey ghosts led by a huge, white, dominant dog-wolf. As they loped at an easy pace; on occasion, pale yellow, or icy-white eyes glanced out across the river at this roaring silver creature that they were keeping station with.

Vadim hoped to God that there would be no cause for the cutter to have to approach the right bank and come face to face with these spiritual ancestors of Genghis Khan and his Mongol warriors.