Chapter Twenty.

Tw- hundred-and-fifteen kilometres north of Kezhma aerodrome, Cheslav Istomin was squelching the Stalingradec along the rutted quagmire of the "Zimniki"...the "Winter road" that snaked through the otherwise impenetrable green sea of the taiga. The ground was free of undergrowth- the tall stands of larch and spruce saw to that. Their upper branches wove a seamless canopy that left the forest floor in a sun-stippled half-light where only mushrooms and mosses could grow. Karyn was beginning to get cramps in her arms from hanging onto the grab handles of the continuously swaying vehicle. What Anton and Sacha must be like in the back, really didn't bear thinking about.

The seemingly endless forest seemed to be thinning. It was slowly becoming lighter. At first, it was barely perceptible; perhaps, just the imagination. She glanced up through the windscreen at the tree canopy. Yes! There were wider glimpses of sky, and the tall, straight trunks of the larches and birch were becoming less densely regimented.

Within half-a-kilometre, the forest opened, and the Chamba River appeared before them. Karyn had not known quite what to expect, and the first sight of the Chamba was a little disappointing. After the majestic Angara, she had imagined that this would be another mighty Siberian river. It was actually little more than a languorously flowing steam; no more than perhaps, twenty-metres- wide, and... if the exposed rocks and shingle banks that occasionally broke its mirror-like surface were anything to go by... not particularly deep. The dense taiga extended on both sides to within ten metres of its banks, which were carpeted with luxuriant grasses and shrubs.

Istomin heaved on the right steering rod and slewed the Stalingradec around to follow the riverbank to the north. As the vehicle bucked and swayed over the undulating ground, tearing out grass and shrubs from under its howling tracks, he glanced at Karyn and grinned.

'Not too far now. Okhchen's hut is about three kilometres ahead. I'll do a little trading with the local reindeer breeders to let you have some riding reindeer to complete the trip up to Tunguska.'

Karyn stared at him.

'Riding reindeer? I thought we would be using horses.'

Istomin laughed.

'Not a chance. Forget what you have read about Kulik's expedition. The Evenki at the settlement where we stopped said that there are no horses up here any longer. They weren't tough enough to withstand the winter cold. You'll be riding reindeer; and they have an advantage... you have their own handlebars to hold onto!'

Okhchen's hut had been repaired since Istomin was last here. The roof had been re-laid with rough-hewn planks, and the window glass had been refitted. A little to the north was a circle of Evenki Choum, with children playing on the river bank. As the Stalingradec lurched to a halt with the usual curtsy on its suspension; a figure emerged from the hut and approached the vehicle.

Istomin switched off the engine, which ran on for a few seconds; shuddering and popping; then climbed down from the cab and walked towards him. He was a young Evenki; perhaps, twenty-years-old. They shook hands; spoke briefly, and then, came towards the vehicle. Istomin introduced the young Evenki as Juchin... Okhchen's grandson. Okhchen was away to the north, beyond the Sil'gami Mountain Range selling some of his best reindeer stock. He had left, to take the summer trail leading to Strelka two days ago.

Istomin negotiated with Juchin for about a quarter of an hour. Several bags of machorka exchanged hands, and Juchin moved away towards the circle of Choum to speak with the breeders who were sitting around a fire pit, watching the proceedings.

While he was absent; Anton and Sacha had begun to unload the supplies and equipment from the cargo bed of the Stalingradec. As they piled the packs and boxes neatly; Juchin returned. He scrutinised the pile and muttered to himself, "Tunnga Inuchae." He turned, and wandered back to the breeders.

Anton gave Istomin a curious glance. Istomin grinned.

'He has decided that you need five pack reindeers to carry the kit. They can easily carry a load of eighty kilogrammes, and can travel up to a hundred kilometres a day. That means you will have a decent-sized caravan which will scare off any prowling wolves or bears, and will probably only take a day or so to reach Tunguska.'

Sacha was curious. He asked Istomin how he came to understand the Evenki dialect. Istomin grinned uncouthly.

'You have to remember that there was no written language for these people until about 1920. I learned it from a pretty little Evenki that I used to slip a length to, up at the trading post at Mutoray on the Kimchu River when I was mapping out the area back in '34.'

He gave a sly grin.

'You should get yourself a piece of "Chuchki"... Asian ass. Mine could do things with her fur pie that could give a neutered Kalmuk with a paralysed piss-pin a rampant hard-on!'

He glanced at Karyn, who was climbing down from the cab of the Stalingradec, and nudged Sacha.

'Though, with a piece of ass like that; who'd ever be interested in a Chuchki?'

He saw the look on Sacha's face and decided that it would be far wiser and healthier if he disappeared quickly. He almost ran after Juchin. Sacha made a move to follow him, but was prevented from doing so by Anton, who said quietly,

'Leave the foul-mouthed svoloch, Sacha. We need him to pick us up when we return. Don't worry; he'll get his in due course. I'll see to that when I get back to Moscow.'

Karyn came to join them. Quickly; before she was within hearing distance, Anton changed the subject. There was no purpose in making her party to Istomin's uncouth remarks. They continued unloading the supplies as if nothing had happened. She came, and stood by them

'Anything I can do to help?'

Sacha smiled.

'No; we've almost finished. Just relax.'

She frowned.

'I hope you are going to let me do my share on this trip. I'm not some helpless, flouncy girl, you know!'

Anton laughed;

'No-one could ever say that of you. You might look like the classic Dumb Blonde, but we know you've got a core made out of Chrome-steel!'

Karyn gave him a thin smile;

'I suppose I'd better take that as a backhanded compliment, you Cossack "Mudak"... asshole. But, just be careful; this classic Dumb Blonde always gets her revenge!'

Anton laughed again.

'I can hardly wait!'

Their banter was interrupted by Juchin approaching them with a group of thirteen reindeer. Eight of the animals were saddled with the curious Evenki pack-saddles fitted upon the fore-shoulders of the animals. Each one consisted of two small, reindeer leather, sewn bags stuffed with moss or hair, and joined together at both ends by pommels made of pieces of deer-horn selected for their natural curves. Between the pads space was left to allow for the movement of the reindeer's shoulders.

The riding-saddles were almost the same in appearance to the pack-saddles, with the exception that the pads were elaborately decorated, and much wider; standing out more from the animal's shoulders and thus presenting a broader and flatter surface upon which to sit. The fore and aft pommels, also of bone, were carved and decorated; whereas the pack saddle pommels were plain.

The riding saddles were about thirty-centimetres-long, and thirty-five-centimetres-wide. No stirrups were used, nor any kind of support whatsoever for the feet. The saddle was fastened upon the animal by a single girth around the body, and positioned upon the fore-shoulders. The remaining five animals were fitted with the Pack saddle. These were loaded with large, soft Pack bags made of elk leg-skins, into which would be packed the equipment and supplies.

Juchin started talking animatedly to Istomin, waving his arms around as he made what were obviously important points. After about five minutes of this; Istomin came to them and explained that Juchin was concerned about them mastering the riding of the reindeer. Riding a reindeer was no easy task. Unlike horses or mules, reindeer had weak backs, and so the saddle had to be placed high on the shoulders of the animal. As the animal moved its front legs, the shifting shoulder blades of the animal made balancing critical, especially when crossing rocky riverbeds or in full sprint across a meadow. The reindeer was spurred with a long staff that could also be used in case of an emergency to recapture one's balance. A single rein was used to control the deer or to stop it. The rider steered the animal by gently tapping the side of its head with his foot, opposite to the desired direction.

Karyn glanced towards Anton and Sacha. Both had apprehensive expressions. It sounded as if this trek was going to be quite an experience. The breeders had followed from their circle of Choum and were loading the pack reindeer. The riding reindeer waited patiently to be mounted. But... how to actually mount one? They were fitted with simple halters consisting of a loop around the animal's nose, from which were attached one or two separate belts of leather which served as reins, and a head bridle fitted with a type of fringe which shook as the animal moved and drove away irritating insects.

Istomin explained that the extra animals were spares... "Delemini"... in the Evenki dialect. If an Evenki was about to travel "gorodu"... far away; and Tunguska was deemed to be "gorodu" by Juchin; then it was necessary to take not less than one, or two spare "Uchaks"... riding reindeer. Riding on one Uchak would limit the distance covered to no more than four, to six hours travel.

While the women of the camp loaded the supplies into the pack bags, Juchin demonstrated how to mount the reindeer. This was always done from the right-hand side of the animal.

He thrust the end of the long staff which he held firmly in his right hand, into the ground for support; swung his left leg onto the saddle, and sprang up with astonishing apparent ease. He turned to Karyn, Anton, and Sacha, and grinned.

"Mit emen-esi"...'We go now.'

Mounting the reindeer proved harder than Juchin had made it look; but, after several tumbles caused by the animals skittering away from these creatures that smelled so different from their usual riders; and the fact that even when in the saddle, it was very easy to overbalance... much to the amusement of Juchin and his fellow Evenki; eventually Karyn and her companions were safely mounted.

As instructed; they slapped the reins on the reindeer's back, said "Che-Che," and the reindeer caravan moved off. Riding was, as Istomin had warned them... very uncomfortable, as the reindeers' shoulders moved up and down; but the long staffs were useful to retain some sort of balance.

As they moved away from the river and deeper into the taiga, the green endlessness seemed to close in around them. Glimpses of the sky were becoming less frequent as the canopy of birch and larch; cedar, and spruce arched above them. The track wove ever onwards; the monotonous swaying in the saddle from the reindeer's movements was becoming tedious... broken only by the odd sighting of a fox or sable. Karyn began musing upon what had occurred up to this point.

Was Himmler monitoring her progress? Were they all safe, back in Minsk? Had the young Provodnitsa Jereni Cherevin arrived safely in Moscow?... and was she now safely under the protection of Anton's friend in the Moscow GUGB Directorate?

She was not to know that Himmler had pretty much lost interest in his brokered "Operation Thunderweapon", as he was now obsessed by his latest initiative. This was the construction of what would come to be known as "Die Kameradschaftssiedlung der SS"... The SS Comradeship Settlement. The SS leadership was looking for an appropriate method and location whereby the members of the three Berlin SS-Hauptämter... the Main offices; and their families could live together in a pure "Arisch"... Aryan community.

In late 1937, Himmler had found the right location at Krumme Lanke; a bow-curved lake located in the Grunewald, adjacent to Lake Schlachtensee to the southwest of Reichshauptstadt Berlin in the district of Berlin-Zehlendorf. The area chosen was located in the so-called "Daurwald" area of forest management. This meant that the forested area was pristine... complementing Himmler's perception of his SS.

Even though the SS family men would live out in the country, they could be in the centre of Berlin... and in their offices in the Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, in less than half an hour, using the U-Bahn... the Berlin subway system; from the station which was situated less than half a kilometre from the proposed settlement.

The SS leadership did not only want to provide their personnel with living space, but also to promote an elite community. That was why the entire complex was to be named Die Kameradschaftssiedlung der SS. The SS hired the GagfaH, a housing enterprise who designated their architect to design the Siedlung the way the "Rasse-und Siedlungshauptamt-SS"... the SS Race and Settlement Office responsible for "safeguarding the racial 'purity' of the SS" within Nazi Germany, envisioned it.

As a result of charges of being "An Enemy of the People," brought by the Minsk NKVD, as a direct result of the Lifshen debacle back in Minsk; Ivan Zakharovich Surta; the President of the Academy of Sciences of Belarusian SSR, Minsk, who had been so helpful to Karyn, had been arrested in August, 1937, and shot in the December... probably in Brod woods.

Jereni Cherevin had been killed in the air crash at Kansk. There was no way that Karyn could know, that, as a result of this tragedy, the ex-Minsk NKVD Office, Lejtenant Gozbezopasnosti Stanislav Lifshen... now Commandant of Kraslag Kansk P.O. Box 235 [17] was only a few days behind her to the south; intent on his revenge for his self-perceived exile as a result of her supposed interference in his affairs back in Minsk.

Karyn glanced at her wristwatch. The caravan had been travelling for two hours now, and the constant jolting was beginning to impose a dull ache in her thighs. There was no way of calculating the distance travelled. The sounds of the taiga were always constant; with the wind through the trees, the birds singing, and the occasional bears' growling echoing through the dense forest.

Juchin had said that they were following the "Tropa-Kulika"... The Kulik Path. This was supposed to be the route that the expedition of 1927 had followed, prior to taking to the rivers in boats. They would follow the Tropa-Kulika for about five kilometres, and then, return to the river. The bank of the Chamba flattened out upriver, and they could make better time than trying to follow the original expedition pathway. About ten kilometres north was a "Zimov'e"... a winter cabin use by hunters as shelter. They would make camp there, and could then follow the Chamba due north until they came to the Makikta River. Here, they would see the first evidence of the Tunguska blast. They would then cross the Chamba at the shallows a little farther upstream, and follow the course of the Makikta in the same way that Kulik had done in 1927, to the centre of the area of the explosion.

So far, the threatened swarms of mosquitoes hadn't materialised. Juchin had collected from Istomin, a wide-brimmed hat complete with an enveloping veil attached to the brim, for each of them. He also had a substantial supply of repellent cream made from Siberian Cedar resin. At the Zimov'e, they would make fire pits and burn cedar chippings. This would repel the mosquitoes from both them, and the reindeer.

The Zimov'e that Juchin had mentioned was in a small clearing close to the Chamba River. It was constructed of cedar logs with a planked roof overlaid with turves. Windowless; it was encircled by a ring of six fire pits, some five metres away from the building. The idea was that these would be filled with cedarwood chippings and ignited. The smoke would repel the mosquitoes and other flying annoyances which were becoming more prevalent as they were getting closer to the bogs; and would give some respite to the reindeer that would gather within the smoky circle to evade the torturing clouds of gnats and gadflies.

Inside; the Zimov'e was surprisingly roomy. There was a central hearth with a free-standing wooden smoke canopy which vented out through the roof; and wooden bunks along the two long walls, strewn with reindeer hide mantles. Three Hurricane lamps hung from the central ridge beam to provide light to the interior.

Behind the cabin was a rough box, apparently made from the off-cuts of the roofing planks, which was used as the store for the cedarwood chippings that were burned in the fire pits, and used as kindling for the hearth. Juchin said that they were free to use whatever was in and around the Zimov'e. They were communal cabins for the use of whoever needed shelter. They were effectively, seasonal shelters used by hunters and fisherman, and all you were expected to do, was to replace what you had used in the way of lamp oil, cedarwood chippings, and the like. Karyn thought it really bizarre how you just took over one of these cabins and slept in it for the night.

While Juchin attended to the reindeer; Anton and Sacha went off, saying they were going to look for wood for the hearth. They also took a couple of fishing lines from the emergency ration packs. Karyn smiled; she wouldn't see them for a while. They were obviously going to try their luck fishing in the Chamba River! She picked up three of the emergency ration packs, a supply of water; and a parcel of reindeer meat that they had been given at the first Evenki camp.

Inside the Zimov'e; she lit the three Hurricane lamps, and looked around for cooking utensils. There wasn't much... just a couple of iron saucepans and a large, cast-iron, covered cooking pot. No matter; they were sufficient to use for what she had in mind... a hearty stew; containing the reindeer meat and the contents of the cans of chipped liver from the ration packs.

As she was preparing the meal at the Zimov'e; back at Kezhma aerodrome, Lifshen was browbeating Junior Sergeant Brody Melnikov in his best NKVD fashion into flying the Polikarpov U-2 bi-plane up to Vanavara. Melnikov protested in vain that, although he was trained to fly; he was not authorised to do so. This cut no ice with Lifshen. If Melnikov didn't want an extended vacation in Kraslag Kansk, he would go and get kitted up and see that the U-2 was refuelled, pretty damned quick.

Melnikov sighed; and with a resigned shrug turned to begin the long walk to the crash shed. He knew that a resounding bollocking and being put on a "fizzer"... a disciplinary charge, by the aerodrome C.O... (which would probably involve some mind-numbingly menial duties)... was totally inconsequential when compared with what this NKVD svoloch was intimating.

In the dilapidated hangar behind the crash shed, Yefrejtor... Private First class Sevastian Botkin and Krasnoarmeets... Private Markov Volynskevich were busy cleaning the rear cockpit of the U-2 and doing temporary repairs to replace the shattered windscreens. This entailed heating up and bending sheets of perspex into the battered windscreen frames. The cleaning operation entailed washing out the blood splatter and pilot's seat soiling in the rear cockpit, caused by pilot Pavel Umanskii's spontaneous bowel evacuation when his neck was broken in the bird strike. They had completed the cleaning and repair to the rear cockpit, and were just heating up the second sheet of perspex when Melnikov appeared. Seeing the grim expression on Melnikov's face; Sevastian Botkin jumped down from the walkway on the U-2's lower wing, and shrugged.

'Give us another half an hour, Brody; and we should have this old kite serviceable again.'

Melnikov looked at him.

'You haven't got half an hour... you haven't even got five minutes. That NKVD svoloch has ordered me to fly him up to Vanavara, right now. Get her tanked up and walk the prop half a dozen times to clear the oil that's collected in the lower cylinders since she was shut down. I don't need them blowing off from over-compression when we fire her up; I'm deep enough in the shit as it is.'

Botkin stared at him.

'But, you don't have clearance from the C.O. to fly her out.'

Melnikov shrugged.

'Tell me about it. I don't have a choice. My alternative is a one-way trip to the Kraslag at Kansk.

Markov Volynskevich; sitting astride the U-2 fuselage forward of the front cockpit, glanced at his junior sergeant, and tossed the half-moulded perspex down onto the concrete floor, where it shattered.

'OK, Brody; what a "Pizda!" In that case, the "Podonok"... the fucker, can eat flies.'

Melnikov gave him a thin grin and turned to go and get into his flying kit. At the door of the hangar, he turned again.

'OK, lads, just get on with it.'

Juchin; having unloaded and brought all the reindeer within the circle of the now-smoking fire pits; was walking towards the rear of the Zimov'e to collect more cedarwood chippings to bank up the fires, when he stopped dead in his tracks and glanced around like some wild creature. He sniffed the air, and held up his hand to Karyn, who had emerged from the doorway; in an unmistakeable sign for her to stand perfectly still. She heard the snap and rustle out in the dense woodland. As she turned in the direction of the sound; Anton and Sacha appeared; carrying three large "Lenak." These were salmon-like fish with a reddish skin. Laughing; and holding up their prize; they came into the clearing... but the snap and rustle continued behind them.

Juchin glanced at Karyn and quietly said, in Russian...

'Do not move... it is a "Kulikan"... a brown bear. We may hunt and slay, but only in keeping with ancient custom. Respect is binding in all things with this Lord of the Taiga.'

'Anton... Sacha'...

Karyn whispered anxiously,

'Look out!... Behind you!'

They turned around cautiously, and saw a huge brown bear standing only twenty metres away, sniffing, and staring at them. It was one of the most beautiful bears they'd ever seen. Its fur was radiant in the dappling sun; its muzzle was grey from age, and it seemed unsure of their presence. The bear took a step forward, stopped again and stood up on his hind legs, sniffing even more eagerly. Anton and Sacha were unarmed. What should she do? She slowly reached towards her shoulder holster for the little PPK automatic. Even with the high-power Kurz rounds; it would be as ineffective as a pea-shooter against this huge creature.

Juchin stopped her. He walked cautiously towards the bear. As he came to Anton and Sacha; he told them to drop the fish, and slowly walk past him towards the cabin. He then faced the bear, and spoke, in Evenki:

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'Grandfather, let there be peace between us, this day. The hunter Juchin comes before you to speak for my companions. Grant us safe passage through your domain as we seek the truth of the ruin wrought by the Old Man of the Storms and his Thunderwings. Do this and I will make you an offering of Red deer heart and marrow in the depths of winter, at the return of the sun. And, for now; accept these "Lenak" in friendship.'

He gestured towards the fish lying where Anton and Sacha had dropped them. The bear inclined his great head. Juchin slowly let out his breath: The offering was acceptable. This Lord of the Taiga drew himself up to his full height of just over two metres. He sniffed the air, took a step forward, and waved a paw. Juchin was dismissed.

As they carefully backed away towards the cabin; the bear scooped up the fish, and turning, lumbered back into the dense curtain of the taiga. Juchin returned to the area within the ring of fire-pits where the reindeer were nervously huddled together, with an unconcerned smile on his face.

The others gaped at him. They had never seen or heard anything like it. Noticing that Karyn was still holding the little PPK pistol aimed at the place where the bear had disappeared; he laughed.

'That toy not stop Grandfather... only anger him. Put away. He allows us to be safe in his domain. Come... "Mit for-ty-esi"... we eat now.'

Two-hundred-kilometres to the south; the Polikarpov U-2 biplane piloted by Mladshiy sergant... Junior Sergeant Brody Melnikov, with Lifshen as passenger in the front cockpit, was grinding its way over the taiga, bound for Vanavara. Brody Melnikov was deliberately flying at a low altitude. There were considerably more flies down here, swarming above the canopy of the trees. Without the protection of a windscreen for the front cockpit, Lifshen would be well-splattered by the time they reached his destination. Brody Melnikov allowed himself a malicious grin. Having to continually pick flies out of his teeth would teach this officious NKVD asshole that he couldn't just come up here throwing his weight around, and dropping Brody in the shit by making him fly the U-2 without the permission of his C.O.

In the front cockpit, Lifshen was not enjoying the flight. Every few minutes he was compelled to scrape the squashed remains of insects from his flying goggles to even manage to see where they were heading. His face was streaked with smears of blood and the sticky mess of countless mosquitoes and gadflies that had been feeding on God knows what, before they had been mashed by the whirling disc of the propeller, less than a metre in front of him, and sprayed into his face.

He had, at first; tried to keep his head down in the front cockpit, but the tightness of the seat harness had only enabled him to hunch his head down until his chin was hard against his chest. Within a short space of time, a dull ache had started in the muscles in the back of his neck and forced him to lift his head. Now, his cheeks were stinging from the continual impact of the insects striking him at almost sixty km/h, and he had to constantly keep spitting insect fragments from his mouth. Worse still; they were also getting into his nostrils.

Lifshen was beginning to bitterly regret browbeating the mechanics back at Kezhma into releasing the biplane before they had completed the replacement of the front cockpit windscreen. In the enforced rush to get airborne, Lifshen had not allowed Brody Melnikov enough time to kit up properly. It was only when they were some ten kilometres out that he announced to Lifshen that, because this was not one of their biplanes, it did not have any navigational charts of the area on board. With a straight face; Brody Melnikov shouted that he would have to fly far lower than usual and rely on visual point navigation... knowing full well what Lifshen would encounter without the protection of a windscreen. Lifshen bought this explanation without reservation... so there was no way he could hold Melnikov to account for his present predicament.

Spitting out yet one more mouthful of insect debris, he muttered to himself that this flight was turning into a fucking nightmare.

Juchin raised his left arm as a signal for them to stop. Karyn, Anton, and Sacha brought their reindeer up to him and reined them in. He pointed across the Chamba River to a tributary.

'Makikta River.'

He pointed to a place a little way upstream.

'We cross there.'

Juchin had roused them early that morning. He had already loaded the pack reindeer and replaced such wood and cedar chippings as they had used the previous night. After a rudimentary breakfast of Lepushki and black tea, he handed out the mosquito veils and jars of cedar-resin repellent cream. They would be able to follow the right bank of the Chamba for a few hours before they needed to protect themselves. This was the reason for breaking camp this early in the morning. Karyn glanced at her wristwatch. It was only 07.00am, and the mosquitoes would not yet be active, with the temperature outside being only three degrees above freezing.

Juchin had said that there was a crossing place on the Chamba that would leave them only forty kilometres from Kulik's supposed epicentre of Tunguska. He would take them up to the point known as "The Third Makikta"... the place where the Tropa Kulika... the Kulik route met the river for the third time. Here, there was a log cabin where they could break ride and have something to eat.

The Shaman-Chief of the Tungus people had, for years, virtually sealed off the region, proclaiming it "Enchanted." The Evenki people had long been fearful of further enraging the Gods whose wrath they believed had been responsible for 1908 explosion. He was compelled by the Shaman's edict, to leave them at this point; but he would wait at the cabin for their return.

They moved on up the river bank to the crossing point. Here. The Chamba was thirty-metres-wide. The mirror surface of the river broke into shallow, rock strewn rapids, with the placid waters, white and tumbling. The depth was no more than half-a-metre, and the reindeer plodded quietly across; carefully placing their hooves on the shifting gravel riverbed. Once safely across; Juchin said that they would follow the Makikta River for about fifteen kilometres until they reached the Vernadskiy Mountain range rising to their right, on the other side of the river. Here, at the south-westerly promontory of the range, they would find the hut on the opposite bank. This was "The Third Makikta." This was the boundary of the Shaman-Chief's "Enchanted zone." He would remain here while they continued on to the north.

The next major visual reference would be the twin peaks of Mount Shakharma. They should pass to the east; and within a little more than seventeen, or eighteen kilometres, they would strike the edge of the Southern swamp. Here; they should turn to the east and follow the Tropa Kulika for about six kilometres. This would bring them to the end of this swamp and the beginning of the surrounding taiga. They would find several markers which would lead them to a fork in the path. To the left would lie the Tunguska epicentre; a kilometre distant; and to the right would be the "Izba Kulika"... The Kulik Hut; the largest building in the camp that Kulik's expedition had built.

This camp was also about a kilometre distant from the fork in the path; at the foot of Mount Stoikovitch next to the southern reaches of the Morass. Kulik's second expedition had built this camp from the torn-down trees, back in 1928. It could be used as their base camp. The "Izba Kulika"... The Kulik Hut was still supposed to be in a state of good repair... according to the stories that Juchin had heard from various non-Evenki trappers and hunters who had passed through his camp in their way south to the Vanavara trading post.

As they moved up the river; Juchin spoke of finding water in the taiga if their supplies ran short. He explained that if they couldn't find any natural springs they should look for water in narrow gullies between hills, or in dry rivers and creek beds. Sometimes water could be found at a depth of one-and-a-half metres; but, this kind of water could not be used directly. It needed to be boiled first.

The sap of the maple and birch could also be used as good water. For this; vertical or parallel cuts were made in the bark of the tree to a depth of three to four centimetres. A gutter made of bark was fixed under every cut, and the sap was collected in a clean can or cap. One litre of sap could be collected per night.

Karyn was a little puzzled. Juchin's Russian had seemed to improve out of all recognition as he was explaining these things. Previously, he had sprinkled his speech with Evenki and regional Russian... but now, there was none. She could just detect undertones of the Moscow dialect... heavy stressed, lengthened vowels and moderate variations in pitch. She glanced at Anton and Sacha. Neither had seemed to notice the change in Juchin's vocabulary as he familiarised them with the hunter's knowledge of survival in these uninhabited lands devoid of any sort of trails, other than the Tropa Kulika. He said the terrain ahead was mostly thick taiga, choked with uprooted trees, dangerous swamps, and swarms of mosquitoes.

To make the insects avoid their shelter, smouldering coals should be placed in a metal can, metal box, or a piece of wood and covered up with moss. The shelter should be allowed to become smoky and then fresh air should be allowed in, helped by waving a piece of fabric or clothing. The smouldering smoke can was placed near the entrance on the downwind side so that the smoke repelled the insects but did not travel inside the shelter. They should use animal trails, tops of hills, and dry rivers. Some sort of sign or marker should be left every one-hundred-and-fifty to two-hundred-metres to avoid getting lost.

They should not attempt to travel in the taiga in fog without a compass. They must try to avoid all bogs and marshes, and use the long reindeer staff. If this could not be avoided... The staff should be handled at an angle. If they fell into a bog; they should not panic and flail around. They needed to save their energy and not try to stay upright. It was better to try and crawl out using the staff for leverage.

She watched Juchin. His black, Mongol eyes betrayed nothing. All her senses were suddenly attentive. She gave an imperceptible shiver. Her feminine intuition told her that this young "Evenki" was indeed, something other than what he appeared to be at first sight.

Following the course of the Makikta River led them through gently undulating hills and valleys with peat bogs in the hollows, and sparse woodland on the surrounding hills. The reindeer caravan plodded steadily northwards. The peat bogs were firm enough to walk on. Scrubby herbs, occasional trees, and abundant lichens stretched out to the borders of the taiga. Within an hour; they came to a little stream... a tributary of the Makikta. Before them, the Vernadskiy Mountain range reared up and marched away to the north-west. "The Third Makikta"... Leonid Kulik's crossing point on the river was only half-a-kilometre further north.

Having crossed the now-shallow Makikta within sight of the cabin where they would part company; leaving Juchin with two of the pack reindeer and their supplies, the others set off away from the northerly bank of the Makikta. The vicious Siberian mosquitoes were beginning to swarm. Thankfully, the veiled hats were totally effective, although, the mosquitoes were determined to try and find some unprotected skin. Fortunately, the blue cotton twill coveralls they had been issued with at Kezhma worked effectively, and no insects succeeded in penetrating the defences. The reindeer plodded onwards, shaking their heads so that their bridle-fringes would drive away the irritating insects.

They began to see fallen trees almost everywhere they looked, although new wood growth had flourished in the ten years since Kulik's expedition. The differences between areas with greater humidity and the drier areas were very noticeable. The dry areas had conserved the fallen trees remarkably well, which gave the impression that the Tunguska event had occurred quite recently, whereas, in the damper areas, thick layers of moss and lichens almost completely covered the trees.

Once past the twin peaks of Mount Shakharma, they would be into swamp taiga, a perilous and inhospitable expanse stretching for as far as the eye could see. "Totchki"... the Russian name for these marshy basins, consisted of stagnant lakes and boggy pools of glistening green water interspersed with myriad tufts of grass. The bogs were of two types... wet swamp; interspersed with tussock swamp, and shrub swamp; basically bog-moss swamp scattered with undulating peat mounds.

As the caravan drew closer to Mount Shakharma; the last right-hand tributary of the Makikta River began to dwindle in size. Anton calculated that they were no more than eighteen kilometres from the edge of the Southern swamp... this would explain the increase in mosquitoes, which were now becoming dense veils of high-pitched, whining annoyances. Soon, they would see Mount Stoikovitch; rising twenty kilometres distant, and named by Kulik in 1928 in honour of Afanasij Stoikovitch... the accepted "Father of Russian meteorics;" at the foot of which would be the "Zaimka Kulika"... Kulik's camp. Out to the north-east they could see the towering Silgami ridge, an ancient outcrop of basalt pointing like a finger at the heart of the Khushmo river valley.

Anton was peering at his rudimentary map. This document was, in itself, something of an artefact. It was the original map that Kulik's Evenki guide on the 1927 expedition, Ilya Potapovich had drawn with coloured pencils, with a group of Evenki herders making running corrections as he worked; for Innokentyi Suslov... the scientist and ethnographical explorer who gathered eye-witness accounts of the Tunguska Event, back in 1926.

Anton had been issued with this map back in Moscow. According to the unsophisticated cartography; once past Mount Shakharma; they would see the Southern swamp... a marshy basin some five to seven kilometres in diameter and surrounded by low hills. The Evenki called this place "Yuzhnoya Boloto"... the southern marsh. Kulik had named it "The Great Cauldron." Here; he had discovered that the evidence of devastation was much greater than that which he had encountered at Mount Shakharma.

The map indicated that the epicenter of the explosion was in the area between the Kimchu and Khushmo rivers, approximately two-and-a-half kilometres to the north of the Churgim waterfall, on the west bank of the Southern swamp. Out to the north, they would see the second highest point in the area... Mount Farrington. Back in Moscow, while he was studying the map, he had wondered why Kulik had, in 1932, elected to call the mountain to the north-north-east from Mt. Stoikovitch, "Mt. Farrington." It seemed to be a curiously un-Russian name for a Siberian mountain.

No-one really seemed to know how it had come to be named thus; but it was suggested that the mountain might have been named after one of the American Expeditionary Force soldiers who fought the Bolsheviki "Reds" during the Russian Civil War. His name was Sergeant Delbert Farrington, of the 31st Infantry; and he was awarded the American Distinguished Service Cross for his heroism fighting at Novitskaya... a village to the north-east of Vladivostok, during the Red offensive against the Suchan valley mines in 1919. It was, however; also suggested that it was more likely that Kulik had named the mountain in honour of an American meteorologist named Farrington.

Anton allowed himself a wry grin. As if he hadn't anything better to do than ponder over the name of a mountain. He studied the faded map again. According to the almost child-like coloured pencil marks, they would soon encounter the lower reaches of the Khladnyy Ridge. At the high point of the ridge, they should be able to see the distant expanse of the Southern swamp, and get their bearings. He smiled again to himself. The naming of the mountain was certainly curious.

Curious was not a word that Mladshiy Lejtenant Aviatsii... Junior Lieutenant Andrei Nikolaevich chose to use, when he saw the Polikarpov U-2 biplane coming in on finals at Vanavara. Its arrival was unexpected... and that always meant some sort of bloody aggravation. He was the highest ranking Officer on the aerodrome at the moment. Voyentekhnik Aviatsii... Air Force Technical Lieutenant Cheslav Istomin, who normally dealt with these incidents, was still God knows where, out in the taiga, and the aerodrome's Commanding Officer... Polkóvnik Aviatsii... Colonel Feliks Cherkesov was down in the village indulging in an energetic bout of vodka-fuelled "Trajat'sya"… bed warming, with his twenty-year-old mistress, Kseniya Grigorevna. With a resigned shrug, he began to walk out towards the runway. The U-2 touched and turned off the landing strip onto the grass. As it approached; Andrei Nikolaevich realised that the front cockpit windscreen was missing. Had it received a bird strike? Was anyone injured?

He broke into a run towards the oncoming biplane, and then stopped dead in his tracks as the head of the passenger appeared in the front cockpit, scraping the splatter of insect remains from his goggles and tearing his flying helmet off. The occupant spat the flies out of his mouth and jammed a Furashka service cap onto his head... a blue-topped, red-banded NKVD Furashka.

The brief notion of amusement and the making of some sort of affable comment on the predicament of the front cockpit's occupant evaporated instantly from the mind of Andrei Nikolaevich. The cold hand of fear clutched him. The NKVD Officer jumped down from the U-2 and stomped across the grass towards him, continuing to spit insect fragments from his mouth.

Nikolaevich froze to attention and saluted smartly. He opened his mouth to give some sort of welcome, but was silenced by the Officer, who brusquely snapped,

'Don't fuck me around, boy. I've not had a good day. Take me to your Commanding Officer immediately.'

Nikolaevich found his voice.

'My apologies, Comrade Lejtenant Gozbezopasnosti; I report that he is not on the aerodrome. He is on business down in the village. I am the only Officer available.'

Lifshen glared at him. Nikolaevich's stomach turned over as the NKVD Officer looked him up and down for what seemed like a lifetime; then gave a negligible shrug. There was no point in taking it out on this poor sod.

'Very well. Take me somewhere I can wash all this shit off my face, and then tell me the quickest way to get up to Tunguska.'

Nikolaevich was thinking fast as they walked to the barracks. The Stalingradec Artillery Tractor was the best, and quickest way... but Istomin was still out in the taiga with it. There was no way to fly up there... there was nowhere to land. He racked his brain. The only possible way was by river. There was a craft at Vanavara belonging to the aerodrome... but it hadn't been used for years.

The craft in question was a complete lash-up. It was basically a "Pauzok," a small, open barge without any shelter for the crew, which was usually used for shipping grain or goods in high waters.

This particular craft was shallow-draught, and powered by a Shvetsov M-11, five cylinder, air-cooled radial aircraft engine... the same type that was fitted to the U-2 biplane. The engine had been cannibalised from an ANT-IV Aerosan... a propeller-powered sled with a box-like body, running on skis, which was designed to be used for communications, mail deliveries; medical aid, emergency recovery, and border patrols. One had been supplied to the aerodrome at Vanavara in the early days, but proved to be totally useless for the taiga. It was designed for use on the rolling steppes, and not over tangled undergrowth.

The only use it had ever been put to, was careering up and down the snow-covered landing strip during the winter, while bets were laid as to who could make the fastest run. That particular entertainment had come to an abrupt end when a steering arm had sheared, and the hapless "Pilot" had smacked the Aerosan into the corner of the long, wooden building with the little control cabin perched half-way along the ridge of its roof, that served as Flying Control. He had stepped out of the wrecked Aerosan without so much as a scratch, and was greeted by enthusiastic cheers and several charkas of vodka.

With this entertainment now at an end; it had been decided by majority vote, that water speed records would be the next amusement. The fitters had cobbled together an engine support frame to the stern of the Pauzok, and fitted a primitive rudder, fuel tank, and engine controls. It was slow to respond to changes of direction, but could make forty-five Km/h in calm water... and the rivers Chamba and Makikta which led up to Tunguska were mirror calm... except for the few rapids. However; the next Commanding Officer of the aerodrome had decreed that this sort of bourgeois nonsense was to cease forthwith; and so the "water speed record" craft had languished unused, down at Vanavara.

While Lifshen was cleaning himself up; Nikolaevich was making frantic telephone calls. He requisitioned three emergency ration packs and two ten-litre jerrycans filled with fresh drinking water from the aerodrome stores. They should be sufficient for Lifshen on his trip up-river. The aerodrome run-around... an old GAZ.4 pick-up was to be loaded with jerrycans of fuel for the Pauzok down at Vanavara. Pyotr Cherstvennikov; the Chief mechanic was ordered to take the pick-up down to the landing stage where the craft was moored; and get the neglected five-cylinder Shvetsov engine fired up and running by the time Nikolaevich arrived with Lifshen.

As the GAZ chugged away in a cloud of fragrant blue smoke, Nikolaevich fretted as to whether there was anything he had overlooked. Damn! He needed a map for Lifshen to navigate the rivers... but there were no maps... except for small-scale air navigation charts. His thoughts raced; Istomin was the only one who really knew the area. Then it came to him... Vasilij Lodko... the aerodrome cook!

Vasilij Lodko had been a trapper in the Chamba valley long before the aerodrome was cut out of the taiga. Nikolaevich had often sat in on the boozy nights when Vasilij used to spin his tales of hunting sable in the frozen wastes of Tunguska. There was probably no-one who knew the area better. He hurried to the cookhouse, and rushed inside. Vasilij was cutting a roast from what appeared to be a full saddle of beef on his cutting table. He looked up at the unwarranted intrusion as Nikolaevich gasped out...

'Vasilij; can you draw me a map of the river system up to Tunguska? I've got an NKVD Officer asshole who has demanded we get him up there, and the rivers are the only way we can do it. We don't have any proper maps, and you know the area like the back of your hand. Can you help me out?'

Vasilij finished cutting the roast out of the saddle of beef, and threw down his long cutting knife. It landed on the cutting table point-first and stuck there; its long, thin, razor-sharp blade quivering. He laughed.

So; you've got the NKVD snapping at your arse and want old Vasilij to get you out of the shit, then?'

Nikolaevich nodded.

'Yeah, and he was really pissed-off when he arrived. He's been eating flies all the way up from Kezhma in the front seat of a U-2 with a busted windscreen!'

Vasilij burst out laughing.

'Oh, I wish I'd seen that. OK, son, don't piss your panties. I'll do you a real map that even that NKVD asshole can understand. It'll take me about ten minutes.'

He reached under the cutting table and brought out a bottle, which he tossed to Nikolaevich.

'Have a swig of that to steady your nerves. It's good stuff... Sergei's latest batch.'

Sergei Kozlow ran the best still in Vanavara. He produced potato vodka... which would normally take the enamel off your teeth. Sergei's vodka was different. He had learned his trade from a Master Distiller who was once with the Moscow State Wine Warehouse No.1, but had been exiled for being "Politically unreliable," and had arrived in Vanavara as part of the penal labour battalion who were forced to cut the aerodrome out of the pristine taiga with their bare hands. Sergei had learned the secrets of filtration through layers of charcoal from this prisoner, and the hooch he produced was triple filtered. As he succinctly put it; this made the vodka "As smooth as a Tatar virgin's thighs." It was also about one hundred-and-fifty-percent proof.

Nikolaevich took a swig from the bottle. There was no "burn" as the viscous liquid went down... just a hint of juniper. Then it hit his stomach, and he felt his toes suddenly go warm. He took another swig, and his apprehension concerning the NKVD "asshole" began to fade. With a wry grin; he decided that he had better not sample any more. As he put the bottle back on the table, Vasilij returned with the map and spread it out on the table. It was beautifully drawn in pencil, with each set of rapids along the Chamba and Makikta clearly marked in relation to the surrounding landmarks. Lifshen would have no trouble following it.

Thanking Vasilij; Nikolaevich rolled the map up and hurried away to get the old GAZ-A saloon from the transport shed. Lifshen should have tidied himself up by now. As he hurried across the grass, Andrei Nikolaevich hoped to God that Chief mechanic Cherstvennikov had managed to get that lump of floating junk operational down on the river. Lifshen was already waiting outside the barracks, dressed in the kit that had been supplied by the aerodrome clothing store. He looked a little more amenable as Nikolaevich stopped the rattly old GAZ in front of the barracks. Lifshen climbed in and looked at him.

OK; so where are we going, boy?'

Nikolaevich explained that the only way up to Tunguska was by river. There was a powered Pauzok belonging to the aerodrome down at Vanavara. Lifshen raised a quizzical eyebrow. The only "Pauzki" he had ever heard of were flat-bottomed, box-like vessels that floated flat on the surface of the water; were unpowered... except by oars; difficult to manoeuvre, and at least twenty-five- metres in length. Nikolaevich said that the one that he would use was only four-metres in length, and was powered by the engine salvaged from an Aerosan sled. Lifshen didn't say anything in response to this... he just inhaled deeply and set his gaze firmly out through the windscreen of the GAZ as it bumped down into the village.

The roads of Vanavara were the usual vile quagmire, and the little houses looked eternally sad and dingy as the GAZ headed for the river. Faintly, at first; over the rattle of the car's engine, but rapidly becoming louder; they could hear the clatter of the five-cylinder aero engine. Nikolaevich breathed a sigh of relief. Pyotr Cherstvennikov had come up trumps again.

The Pauzok sat high on the surface of the Podkamennaya Tunguska River; tied off to the crude landing stage on the edge of the village. Chief mechanic Pyotr Cherstvennikov was tinkering with something at the rear of the engine as it ticked over with the usual Shvetsov lumpy idle. The rear-mounted propeller rotated lethargically; glinting in the early afternoon sunlight. Looking up; Cherstvennikov saw Nikolaevich and Lifshen approaching, and jumped up onto the landing stage; greeting them with an oily-handed salute. Lifshen nodded, walked down to the Pauzok, and stood there, hands on hips, as he studied this outrageous craft.

The Shvetsov engine was mounted at the stern of the craft on a sturdy, angle-iron framework with a cage of curved iron rods enclosing the arc of the propeller. The "pilot" sat in an old aeroplane seat firmly bolted to one of the main hull ribs. Steering was by way of an aeroplane rudder bar and pedal assembly operating twin wooden rudders mounted behind the propeller; and the engine control was merely a vertical tube mounted between the occupant's legs, and topped by what appeared to be an old motorcycle throttle twist-grip. Lifshen allowed himself a secretive, uncharacteristic grin. This looked as if it was going to be real fun... and he hadn't had any of that for longer than he cared to remember.

The noise from the engine's stub exhausts was deafening... even at tick-over. What the hell it would sound like at normal running speed didn't bear thinking about. The racket would carry for a considerable distance up-river. There could be no possibility of a covert approach in this thing. But; then again... when his quarry heard the distant, approaching clatter of the engine they might well imagine that it was just a U-2 biplane mooching out over the taiga somewhere to the south.

While Lifshen was contemplating the craft; Nikolaevich and Cherstvennikov were unloading the jerrycans of fuel from the pick-up. Nikolaevich turned to Cherstvennikov and quietly said,

'Pyotr; is this contraption actually going to work?'

Cherstvennikov shrugged, and grinned.

'How the fuck should I know? We've never been allowed to try it out. It'll either give the svoloch the ride of his life... or kill him before he even reaches the mouth of the Chamba River.'

Meanwhile; the clatter of the engine had attracted several children from the village, who stared, wide-eyed at this roaring monster. They were even more impressed with this intrepid adventurer who was settling himself into the seat and familiarising himself with the operation of the controls. Although he would never admit it... even to himself; Lifshen was enjoying being the centre of attention. His business, up to now, had always instigated fear and dread in those whom he had held in his clutches. The admiration in the children's faces was intoxicating. He wondered if the incident of the crashed bomber and the resultant death of Jereni Cherevin... literally, in his arms; had somehow softened him. These insidious thoughts were thrust aside as Cherstvennikov jumped down into the Pauzok to explain the operation of the controls, while Nikolaevich began filling the fuel tank from the jerrycans.

With the fuelling completed; the ration packs; water, spare jerrycans of fuel stowed on board; and Lifshen seemingly fully familiar with the controls and in possession of Vasilij the cook's map; Cherstvennikov and Nikolaevich jumped back up onto the landing stage, cast off the rope and waited for the fun to begin. Lifshen stuck a pair of pilot's earplugs into his ears, pulled down his goggles, and with his feet firmly on the rudder pedals; gently twisted the throttle open. The propeller became a blur, and the clattering crackle of the engine rolled back and forth across the Podkamennaya Tunguska River.

The Pauzok began to make headway downstream. Lifshen guided it out into midstream and opened up the engine. The Pauzok took off like a scalded cat; skimming over the sapphire surface of the river. The harsh blare from the Shvetsov engine exhaust stubs was tooth-jarring; bringing the villagers living along the river bank to their windows; gawping out to see what the hell was making such a noise.

Lifshen had something like twenty kilometres in which to get the feel of the Pauzok before he came to the mouth of the Chamba on the apex of the second westerly bend in the river; some two kilometres beyond the village of Chamba. As the Pauzok roared out of sight around the right-hand bend down the river; a great, white cloud of Snow cranes rose into the skies; their combined cries of annoyance sounding like an orchestra of demented flautists echoing back across the waters.

Pyotr Cherstvennikov turned to Andrei Nikolaevich; laughing so much that the tears rolled down his cheeks.

'By the Holy Saint Olga Prekrasa; look at him go! He's either having a great time... or his asshole is now as tight as an over-tuned balalaika!'

They turned, and still laughing; walked back to the vehicles to make the short journey to the aerodrome; while the raucous clatter of the Pauzok's engine slowly faded into the distance.