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Chapter Twenty-One.

Chapter Twenty-One.

In the cabin at "The Third Makikta"; the guide Juchin was preparing the equipment he had brought concealed in the pack bag attached to the saddle of his pack reindeer. As he laid out the camouflaged coveralls on the rudimentary bed, he smiled to himself. This was going to be far easier than he could possibly have imagined.

Karyn's intuition was well-founded. Juchin, the Evenki guide was not what he had seemed to be. He was certainly not Okhchen's grandson. Juchin Chernyak was, in fact, a Sergant Gozbezopasnosti... Sergeant of State Security in the shadowy, NKVD Fourth Directorate, "Osnaz"... "Osobennogo naznacheniya"... "Specialized Designation" Unit. He was a covert assassin; based in Vladivostok, and seconded to the NKVD office at Mutoray on the specific orders of NKVD General Genrikh Samoelovich Lyushkov; Commissar for Siberia; who, in turn had received instructions from Yezhov himself; that the "Aktion Donnerwaffe" expedition members were to be liquidated on the successful completion of their assignment.

To call the dingy shack it occupied in Mutoray, "The NKVD Office" really was stretching the imagination. The village comprised about fifty assorted turf-roofed houses and buildings, and the population consisted of only seventy, or so, people... many of whom were native Evenki. There were no roads in the village, just boggy tractor tracks. There was only one Glavnyy magazin... general store, which was so out of touch that the owner just opened it daily between 11:30am and noon, or whenever she felt like it. In a word; Mutoray was a shithole; and Juchin Chernyak had never been so happy to have left a place.

He grinned; a big, shiny-toothed grin. These stupid Westerners hadn't suspected a thing. His cover was perfect. None of the Evenki had imagined that he was anything other than Okhchen's grandson. The old man had been intercepted on his most recent foray down to the Vanavara Trading Post by the local Political Officer, and coerced into complying with this deception with threats of a lingering death in the mines of the Kolyma peninsula; and even out in the remote taiga, everyone knew the sinister phrase: "Kolyma oznachayet smert"... "Kolyma means death."

It would be great sport, picking off these unsuspecting "Duraki"... fools; just like hunting sable back home in the Altai Mountains. He picked up the special, covert Mauser Bolo constructed with a built-in silencer that was part of the barrel rather than the standard long barrel which was threaded to fit a screw-in "Bramit" suppressor. He cycled the firing mechanism and reached for the loading stripper clip lying on the bed.

He thumbed ten of the special high-velocity, high-pressure Czech cartridges into the clip; pulled back the bolt until it locked, inserted the stripper into the stripper guide, and applied steady thumb pressure on the top cartridge; stripping the rounds off the clip into the magazine. He made sure the bolt was completely closed and the safety catch was up and fully "On."

Slipping the weapon into the walnut wood holster which doubled as a shoulder stock when it was slotted into the rear of the Mauser's "Broomhandle" grip frame and locked with a latch on the front face of the shoulder stock... effectively turning the weapon into a carbine, giving it an effective range of between one-hundred-and-fifty and two-hundred metres, with a maximum range of two-thousand-metres; he reached for his "Kandra"... the vicious Siberian knife, sharpened on both edges of the blade, and resembling a long butcher's knife... but stronger. Humming to himself, he began honing the long, evil blade. He had no intention of using it unless he wasn't given any choice. Since the times of Genghis Khan, the Mongols did not practice torture, mutilation, or maiming; Mongols merely slaughtered, preferring to do so from a distance.

Having watered the reindeer and set the fire pits; Juchin Chernyak settled down for the evening in the cabin by "The Third Makikta," and prepared his evening meal of reindeer meat, lepushki, and black tea. He would leave the two pack reindeer at the cabin and use one pack bag slung to the saddle of his riding reindeer to carry his supplies. He was used to travelling light, and would begin to stalk the Westerners the following morning.

As they moved to the north; according to Anton's map the party needed to follow a trail that wound sinuously through the taiga for something like fifteen kilometres, until they reached the Khushmo River. There were several shallow crossing points in the area; and once across, they would need to follow the course of the Churgim creek north for three kilometres until they reached the edge of the Southern swamp. Here, they would pick up the Tropa Kulika again.

Even this far from the Southern swamp, the mosquitoes filled the air with a constant whine. Back at Vanavara, Cheslav Istomin; in one of his more poetic moments when he wasn't leering at Karyn, or making lascivious asides about his Chuchki girl up at Mutoray; had remarked that the sound that the clouds of mosquitoes made was often referred to as "Pesnya Sibiri"... the "Song of Siberia." In the deep silence of the Siberian wilderness... broken only by the occasional distant growl of a bear, or yapping of a wolverine, the constant whine of the song was soporific.

The protective coveralls and veiled hats effectively foiled the tiny, bloodthirsty predators, and the reindeer didn't seem to be too bothered by them as they plodded resolvedly onwards. The only real problem was that to take a drink of water would mean having to expose bare skin... and that was what the mosquitoes were waiting for. They would need to find a hut or cabin to protect themselves if they wanted any refreshment.

Anton estimated that they were only about five kilometres from the point at which Mount Shakharma would be out to their left; and the lower reaches of the Khladnyy Ridge would be in front them. They would need to stop soon to rest and water the reindeer... and have a drink, themselves. According to the map; there was one of the old Evenki grain stores that had survived the 1908 explosion, somewhere off to the right. They would make for it, providing that the fallen tree trunks which were becoming much more prevalent didn't make the progress too difficult.

As they moved on; they discovered the beginnings of the mass of fallen trees, uprooted as if by a giant hand. The grain store was still there... the timbers showed signs of charring, and several of the rough planks that formed the roof were missing; but it would serve as a welcome shelter from the mosquitoes which were, by now almost curtain-like in their swarms.

Having watered the reindeer; they took refuge in the abandoned grain store. Sacha followed the guide Juchin's instructions, and lit a small pile of wind-blown leaves and twigs gathered from around the inside corners of the store, which he had piled into an old, discarded can. This was covered with moss. As the interior became smoky; Sacha wafted fresh air inside by waving a piece of fabric he found in one corner of the store. 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 store. It stung their eyes for a few minutes; but the mosquitoes gave the smoke a wide berth, and they were able to remove their veiled hats. Karyn opened one of the emergency packs and passed a tin of drinking water to each of them. She also broke open one of the chocolate bars and passed it around.

As they were eating the chocolate; she mentioned her concerns about Juchin. Anton nodded.

'Yes; I noticed the change in his accent too. What d'you think, Sacha?'

Sacha shrugged.

'Can't say I really noticed. I was spending all my time concentrating on staying on that damned reindeer.'

He glanced at Karyn.

'Could it be that you were just both imagining it? We were all distracted by the riding and having to wear these veiled hats.'

Karyn didn't answer. That was twice now, that Sacha had shrugged off something she would have expected him to pick up on. The first time was at Kezhma; when Anton had remarked that at least, they would not have to keep looking over their shoulders all the time for Lubyanka shadows. Sacha had not said anything in response. She had thought it a little odd at the time. Now there was this. He must have noticed the change in the guide's accent. Her intuition was screaming that there was something very curious with the attitude Sacha had held for the last few days. This was not the sort of behaviour she was familiar with, from the man that she had come to know, and love.

Having rested for an hour; they mounted the reindeer and moved on. The pathway began to rise as they started up the lower slopes of the Khladnyy Ridge. The reindeer plodded onwards; the mosquito swarms increased. The pathway followed the direction of the fallen trees for a few kilometres until they finally reached the crest of the slope. Before them stretched a marshy basin which Anton estimated was between five, and seven kilometres in diameter, surrounded by low-lying hills. The view was almost exactly as Kulik had described it in the notes Karyn had studied back in Minsk; allowing for almost ten years of regrowth.

For many kilometres, mighty trees had fallen; all pointing away from the fall point. The big blast must have definitely happened several kilometres above the ground as the exposed hillsides appeared to have suffered the most damage. The trees, without exception, radiated out for many kilometres. Towards the centre of the "Great Cauldron" there were no trees at all. The thick trunks had been totally vapourised, leaving the area empty. However; in the very centre, some two, or three kilometres from the edge of the Morass, could be seen within the central blasted area, a wide ring of upright trees, charred and completely stripped of foliage. This was the "Telegraph pole forest" that Kulik had mentioned.

Also evident, were the circular giant ridges, like waves in water, which Kulik believed were formed when the solid ground heaved outwards under the impact of the explosion shock wave. The whole scene was like a giant frozen picture of what happens when a brick falls into a puddle of mud.

Karyn looked at Sacha and Anton. She sighed.

'Where on earth do we start? And what are we ever likely to find in this devastated landscape?'

Sacha shrugged.

'Who knows? Let's get on to Kulik's camp. It can't be very far now.'

As they followed the pathway east, they could see that the flattening extended further to the northeast, along the Sil'gami Range towards the summer trail leading to Strelka. Kulik had decided to move closer to the centre of the burned, and flattened taiga. His second camp was built on the lower slope of Mount Shakharma, right on the very edge of the Southern swamp. This was the camp named Zaimka Kulika; and this was where they were now heading. As the path moved back into the surrounding taiga; roots of felled trees, wrenched out of the ground by the blast, were the only reminder of the destruction, looming up in the low light under the forest canopy like grey spectres.

At last, they arrived at the camp almost hidden in the new growth of the forest. Initially built in 1928 by Leonid Kulik during his second expedition to the area; it comprised several cabins which had been constructed from timber affected by the heat of the explosion. The log walls showed evidence of heavy charring. Spread around the camp area were sheds, storage piles, and the remains of a smithy. Nearby was a cavity in the earth, clad with rocks, which apparently had served as an oven for baking bread.

Unloading the pack reindeer and setting them loose with the riding animals to forage the taiga; they approached the largest hut. This must be the "Izba Kulika"... The Kulik Hut. The walls of the long, low building constructed of the fallen trunks of the trees blown down in the explosion also showed signs of charring. The roof was made of planks sawn from similar tree trunks. The building had a sturdy door which swung gently on creaking hinges. The inside of the gloomy abandoned cabin appeared to have changed a little since Kulik’s times. Karyn found the whole place rather surreal... almost as if the 1928 expedition members had just walked out a little while ago, and would return at any moment to discover them there. She smiled; this must be how Goldilocks had felt in the classic English fairytale; known in Germany as: "Goldlöckchen und die drei Bären"; just before being caught sleeping and eating at the house of the Bear family.

The shelves still contained bottles with medicines originating from Kulik’s expeditions, and in the corner was a fireplace, built by the first residents of the cabin, which looked as though it was still operational. A tool board, complete with hand-made tools hung from the wall; and a chess set carved out of birch wood lay set out on a rudimentary table. The cabin still had some tinned food supplies and clothing.

As they settled into the Izba Kulika; Lifshen was making good time negotiating the sinuous lower reaches of the Chamba River. He had eventually mastered the controls of the Pauzok on the twenty kilometres of the Podkamennaya Tunguska River without any major mishap, and was quite enjoying himself. Being flat-bottomed, the best description that he could think of for the Pauzok's handling on the calm river was: "Letayushchiy chaynyy podnos"… "Flying Tea-tray."

The craft simply skimmed over the surface of the water with hardly any lean as he guided it through the tortuous bends. The stillness of the water was only interrupted by the Pauzok carving a white wake in the otherwise mirror-like reflection of the river. After about an hour, the first rapids came into sight. Lifshen checked the rudimentary map. He was about fifteen kilometres down-river from the place marked as "Okhchen's hut."

He twisted the throttle grip clockwise, and the engine slowed to a lumpy idle. The Pauzok crept forward as Lifshen guided it between the obstacles and rocks. Too slow! The craft was beginning to swing in the current. A little more throttle and the engine picked up; pushing the craft forward. The tumbling white water was diminishing. He was through! The river became a calm expanse ahead; mirroring the surrounding taiga; which was almost unbroken on both sides; only interrupted by the occasional burned area that was still re-growing. The shores were slowly rising to both sides, and the taiga was slowly being transformed into what appeared to be a green valley of trees. Suddenly, he caught sight of a movement on the eastern bank. In a trip with no... or few, live wild animals sightings; it came as a surprise to him to glimpse what must have been a mother bear with her three cubs playing on the eastern riverbank They ran back into the safety of their domain as they heard the engine noise approaching.

As Lifshen travelled on up the river; negotiating three more sets of rapids successfully; there were other brief glimpses of the local wildlife. Here... the swiftest glimpse of a huge moose; there... a pair of wolverines. None came closer than the edge of the taiga to peer at this strange roaring creature out on the river. Lifshen watched them in fascination. This wild, forbidding, and inhospitable landscape was beautiful. The sky was an endless, crystal blue; the river was so calm he could see the reflections of the trees and grass on the shore in the water, making it look like a beautiful painting one might expect to see in the Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts on Volkhonka Street, back in Moscow.

At a point where the river made a giant "U" like a horseshoe; he steered towards the eastern bank and brought the engine revs to idle. He broke open one of the emergency ration packs and brought out one pack of cracker biscuits; a tin of braised meat, and a container of fresh drinking water. The mosquitoes seemed not to be too prevalent on the river; so he could have something to eat and drink without worrying about having to keep the veil of his hat down. He estimated that he was now no more than three, or four kilometres from Okhchen's hut, and could probably pick up more supplies from there. He finished his meal and thought he'd better check the fuel. As he unscrewed the filler cap of the tank, he heard a growl. Looking up; he spotted two bear cubs up in a tree and their mother angrily growling on the edge of the tree line trying to scare this noisy monster away. Quickly abandoning any thought of re-fuelling under the menacing gaze of this audience; Lifshen leapt into the seat and twisted the throttle grip wide open. The Pauzok surged away from the bank into mid-stream and Lifshen hurled it around the first curve of the huge horseshoe bend. Glancing back; he saw the cubs scramble down the tree and head back into the forest with their mother.

Juchin Chernyak was moving through the thick taiga like a camouflaged ghost, in spite of riding a reindeer. This was his trump card... his natural ability rooted and ingrained in his nature, and deeply implanted by his heredity. His ancestors; since the times of The Golden Horde of Mongols led by Genghis Khan, sweeping across Central Asia, had been masters of the hunt in these lands. He smiled behind his camouflaged netting mask. He was, indeed, a spiritual ancestor of Genghis Khan and his Mongol warriors. Hunting these stupid Westerners would not be troublesome. If they only knew that he was coming after them, they should be filled with dread. In Central Asia, they still used the name of Genghis Khan to frighten children.

He glanced at the sky through the dappling canopy of trees. The sun was lowering. This far north; for the past few days there hadn't been a dark night at all. He had seen the light of the entire World across the skies. During the day he saw the Asian sun... and at night he could see the pale light coming from the American sun far away on the eastern horizon. He would spend the night in an abandoned cabin he knew of; above a little meadow stretching down to the river. The meadow would give grazing to the reindeer, and he would take up the hunt early the next morning.

Having spent the night in the large Choum reserved for revered visitors to the settlement at Okhchen's hut; Lifshen made preparations to continue on up the river. Dipping the fuel tank of the Pauzok established that the five-cylinder, Shvetsov engine had only used a little over a quarter of the petrol tank's capacity on its trip up from Vanavara. He had plenty of reserve fuel, and from what the hunters had told him concerning the distance up to "The Third Makikta," he could afford to trade at least one jerrycan of petrol for supplies.

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The Evenki were only too pleased with this arrangement. Petrol was a precious commodity up here, and the full jerrycan brought Lifshen sufficient supplies to not only sustain him on his journey up to Tunguska... but for the return journey as well.

With the supplies safely stored in the bow of the Pauzok; he grasped the propeller and turned the engine over a few times to dissipate any oil that might have collected in the lower cylinders. Reaching forward; he flicked the two magneto switches up. He firmly grasped the left-hand propeller blade, pulled down until he felt the compression resistance; and swung it down with all his strength. The Shvetsov wheezed and coughed, and the propeller flicked over a couple of times. Damn! It didn't fire! Disappointed with his first attempt, he reached for the blade... then drew back. The Mag switches! If he tried again without switching off and centring the blades, the engine might kick back and, at the very least, break his arm! Lifshen didn't know much about aero engines, but he had overheard this danger mentioned by the ground mechanics back at Kezhma.

Flicking the switches down, he centred the propeller blades again. OK; switches up, and swing the blade. The engine coughed. There were a couple of loud detonations, and... nothing! Lifshen sighed. Perhaps he should have paid a little more attention when Chief mechanic Pyotr Cherstvennikov was explaining this bloody piece of floating junk back at Vanavara. No matter. Give it another try. He flicked the switches down and wound the propeller back to the horizontal once again. His arms were beginning to ache from the resistance of the engine compression. OK. One more time... switches up; swing down the blade.

The obstinate engine emitted a couple of feeble splutters, followed by three resounding backfires that echoed and rolled back and forth across the tranquil river. A fragrant cloud of blue oil smoke belched out of the cylinder exhaust stubs and the lethargically rotating propeller blades completed one full turn, gathering speed; and began to speed up as the engine burst into clattering, lumpy life and settled into a rough, clunking tick-over.

Waving away the curious Evenki who had gathered to watch this entertaining diversion; Lifshen clambered aboard and settled himself into the seat. Glancing back to ensure that no Evenki children were too close to the propeller, he twisted open the throttle grip and moved out onto the river. When the Pauzok was centre-stream, he straightened the craft up and wound open the throttle. The noise from the engine's stub exhausts was deafening as the settlement Evenki watched this strange craft recede into the north, trailing a faint blue haze as the accumulated oil burned out of the engine's lower cylinders.

Juchin Chernyak was working his way north, keeping under the cover of the borders of the taiga, and avoiding the more exposed Kulik Path wherever possible. He had deliberately chosen an all-brown reindeer back at the settlement, and the animal's coat blended perfectly with the dappled shade under the trees. His camouflaged coveralls and wide-brimmed, veiled hat which served the double purpose of keeping the mosquitoes at bay and obscuring his pale skin made him almost invisible to anything other than the closest scrutiny. Behind his face veil, he grinned. This mission would be easy. Yezhov's order was unambiguous. If the expedition party found anything pertinent, he was to secure possession and liquidate the entire party. If nothing was found; he was to abandon his pursuit, and return to Mutoray.

He had already decided that, regardless of whichever situation materialised; he would liquidate the two men anyway, and subject the blonde white girl to a good, old-fashioned "Mongol Horde" style rape before she too, was liquidated. Eventually, when they failed to return; they would probably be written off as "Lost out in the taiga." He grinned again. Time to break cover and check his position. As he guided his reindeer out onto the Kulik Path, he saw that he was approaching the lower slopes of the twin-peaked Mount Shakharma. He would need to veer off to the north-east soon, if he was to approach the expedition camp from a totally unexpected direction... not that he would be expected anyway. Then he heard it. At first; it was faint... so faint that it was difficult to tell from which direction it was coming. Slowly the sound grew into the unmistakeable grating clatter of a U-2 biplane engine. It was coming from behind him... from the south. It was still distant, but getting closer by the minute.

Turning the reindeer back into the tree line, he dismounted and carefully returned to the edge of the Kulik Path. He scanned the skies to the south, searching for the approaching bi-plane. There was no sign of it, but that meant nothing. It might be anywhere. It was probably just a routine patrol; but he wasn't meant to be there, and in his business it paid to be extra careful. He waited for five minutes. Nothing appeared, and the engine sound wasn't increasing. In fact, it seemed to be lessening. The bi-plane had obviously reached the extent of its patrol area and had turned back towards its base. He waited another five minutes as the engine note receded and was replaced by the normal taiga sounds.

Satisfied; he returned to the reindeer, mounted, and came out onto the exposed Kulik Path once again, to continue his mission. He was not to know that the "bi-plane engine" noise was the sound of Lifshen's Shvetsov-powered Pauzok coming up the Chamba River and reducing speed as it reached the mouth of the Makikta River.

At the Makikta; Lifshen was studying his rudimentary map. According to the landmarks; if he took the tributary he would only be able to reach the place marked as "The Third Makikta." This would mean that he would then have to negotiate about twenty kilometres of taiga on foot, and he wasn't properly equipped for that sort of journey. He studied the map intently. If he continued for about ten kilometres up the Chamba he would reach the point where the Khushmo River joined it. If he then took the Khushmo and followed it upstream he would eventually find the old expedition landing stage marked on the map as "Pristan"; the nearest point to the actual epicentre that Kulik had been able to reach by river on his first expedition, and where he built his first permanent camp... "Camp No. 13." According to the rough scale that Vasilij Lodko... the aerodrome cook back at Vanavara, had drawn on his map; Kulik's Camp No.13 Pristan was about eight kilometres almost due south of the Tunguska epicentre.

This alternative route would be much easier, albeit further to travel; but he had plenty of fuel and supplies. The other advantage was that the expedition party... even if they knew he was following them, would never imagine that he would appear from the direction of Kulik's old base camp.

With a final scrutiny of the map; Lifshen nodded his satisfaction to the new plan. Adjusting the face veil of his hat, he twisted open the throttle grip of the Pauzok; and, with the ragged, clattering blare of the Shvetsov engine exhaust stubs reverberating and echoing back from the trees; picked up speed and skimmed on up the Chamba River.

As he piloted the Pauzok up the Chamba; Lifshen's policeman cunning was forming an even better plan. According to Lodko's map; the Pristan base camp straddled the Tropa Kulika... the Kulik Path. It might just be construed as being the obvious entry point for anyone sneaking up on the expedition. The map showed a tributary to the right-hand side of the Khushmo, a couple of kilometres below the landing stage.

On the map, Lodko had identified this tributary as the Churgim River, whose headwaters rose on the north-eastern slopes of Mount Shakharma. Lifshen decided that he would run the Pauzok as far as he could, up the Churgim, and circle around Mount Shakharma; approaching the camp marked on the map as "Izba Kulika" from the north; using the wooded slopes as cover.

At the camp; Karyn, Sacha, and Anton stepped out of the cabin and surveyed the scene that stretched before them. Here, the evidence of devastation was still much greater than what had been seen around the area of Mount Shakharma. Across the southern swamp lay a sprinkling of scrubby undergrowth which would appear to be not too difficult to negotiate. The swamp was basically two distinct types of bog. The first type was what was best described as "Wet bog"... which looked as if it would be weak to walk on... in the few places that this was possible. The second type was scattered with raised peat mounds which appeared to be firm enough to walk on, and where most of the sparse undergrowth, scrubby herbs; occasional trees and abundant lichens and mosses flourished. The stand of stripped trees... Kulik's "telegraph poles" reared enigmatically, some three kilometres distant in the centre of the depression.

Karyn sighed as she surveyed Kulik's "Great Cauldron."

'So, where the hell do we start? It's just swamp and scrub except for that group of cedars that must have survived the Tunguska catastrophe over there on the bank of the swamp, and Kulik's "telegraph poles."

Sacha shrugged.

'Your guess is as good as mine. There might be anything out there… or there might be nothing. How we find out is anyone's guess. I don't really know what we're looking for. Was there any clue in those volumes you deciphered?'

Karyn shook her head. The only possibility would be if we could find any rowan bushes. The volume mentioned that something dreadful was buried amongst them; but I don't see anything remotely like that type of tree anywhere.'

Anton looked at them both. He was silent for a while, and then he spoke.

'There is something. It's probably still secret; but, according to the rumours being told by Kremlin archivists; another of Kulik's reports, including a diary, were found two years ago in the GUGB archives. They were in the files of a murderer named Kulagin who was executed in 1933. No doubt they had been filed by accident, but had such an accident not occurred we might never have known about this report which mentions one of Kulik's guides giving him a lump of metal said to have been found embedded in one of the fallen trees of Tunguska.

Kulik was unable to determine what sort of metal it was. It could not be drilled, he was unable to saw through it, and when he returned to Moscow it was an object of great curiosity. Even with the best of machine tools available at the time it could not be cut in any way. How the diary came to be moved from the Academy of Science into the GUGB archives is only hinted at by the highly secret report found with it, dated 1934. Wherever that piece of metal is now is beyond guessing. It may yet turn up in a secret file or buried in some store room, but in 1934 it was in a factory in Uralsk where great hope was placed in being able to make more of this material to use as armour for tanks.

The location of the find was accurately documented and pinpointed by a reference to two fallen trees with their root systems intertwining vertically in the shape of a star. The diary indicated that these trees were situated in the middle of the standing telegraph forest. Perhaps this lump of metal is at the heart of your expedition, and they hope you might find some more of the same.'

Karyn frowned.

'But what if that piece of metal was this artefact referred to in the volumes? If it was; then all this has been a waste of time.'

Anton shrugged, and gazed across the swamp.

'Well, there's only one way to find out.'

Making sure their hat veils were firmly tucked into the necks of their coveralls and no bare skin was visible to the swarms of mosquitoes that were rising from the swamp, they carefully set off in single file across the ridges on the surface of the swamp which extended, slightly separate from one another, all the way to the standing telegraph pole forest.

Juchin Chernyak was getting close. He had left the Kulik Path below the Khladnyy Ridge and headed north-east. The going was more difficult now, as he encountered the tangle of fallen trees and undergrowth. He had heard the sound of the bi-plane engine again, but was well under the cover of the thinning taiga. Perhaps it was out on a training flight back and forth to the south. It was unimportant. The lower slopes of Mount Shakharma were beginning to rise out of the surrounding forest. "Izba Kulika"... Kulik's camp must be close now. He dismounted, and left his reindeer. He glanced at the sun, and then at his watch. If he kept the sun at his back he would be heading west, towards where the camp would be situated.

He smiled as he unslung the wooden Mauser Bolo holster, removed the weapon, and clicked the holster into the rear of the Mauser's "Broomhandle" grip frame slot. The handgun was now transformed into a carbine. He flicked off the safety and moved forward, carefully avoiding the fallen twigs and branches that littered the rising ground. Through the trees he spotted the first of the old huts. Silently, he crept forward, keeping low. The dappled sunlight flickered on his camouflaged coveralls. He was almost invisible to the casual glance. This would be too easy. The camp was deserted. He saw the three figures out in the swamp, about two kilometres distant. Too far to hit them. He would liquidate them when they returned. He looked around for a suitable hide.

Out on the edge of the camp stood a "Labaz." This was a small hut raised some three metres on vertical tree trunks driven into the ground; which had served as a food store for the camp. These stores were built thus, to prevent bears from raiding their contents. It had one crude door made of split logs that over the years had developed cracks and holes. It overlooked the camp and the swamp. It would be perfect.

He flicked the safety back on his Mauser, climbed up, and slipped inside. The little hut was empty, and the largest crack in the rough door was sufficient to shoot through. They would have no idea where the shots came from. As he settled himself in the gloom; Juchin Chernyak gave a cruel smile. He knew what a bullet from a Mauser Bolo could do to a man. It wasn't the hole it made going in, but the hole it made coming out. It was the difference between a hazel nut and an orange. Now, all he had to do was wait.

Two kilometres up the Churgim River, Lifshen throttled the Shvetsov engine of the Pauzok back to half-revs in order to guide the craft safely past a substantial half-rotted tree trunk which lay partially submerged against the left bank and jutted out almost to the middle of the ever-narrowing river. He glanced around. As far as the eye could see, the surrounding area was littered with the fallen corpses of the taiga giants stripped of their branches; through which, the thirty year-old new growth was reaching upwards towards the clear blue skies.

About half a kilometre out to his left; the sparsely-wooded, dome-shaped Mount Shakharma was thrusting up from the devastated forest; and further to the north lay the larger Mount Farrington with the darker basalt smudge of the western end of the Silgami Ridge rising away to the north-east behind it. The depth of water was becoming much shallower, and the river was beginning to narrow considerably. He would soon have to stop, and leave the Pauzok. If he left it much later; there wouldn't be enough room to turn the craft around for the return trip.

A hundred metres ahead he saw a likely spot. The eastern bank of what was now rapidly becoming a stream shelved down and formed a little shingle beach. That would be perfect. He could beach the craft and tie it off to one of the fallen tree trunks. There was sufficient width in the river to push off and turn around. He eased the throttle closed. The Shvetsov engine slowed to a lumpy idle as he steered the craft for the bank. With a gentle grinding sound it beached on the shingle. Lifshen reached back and flicked down the magneto switches. The clatter of the engine subsided, and with a couple of pops from the exhaust stubs, the propeller slowed, and jerked to a standstill. Unbuckling his seat harness, he stood, and stretched his legs as he looked around. A large, fallen log lay on the bank, no more than a metre away. He clambered out of the Pauzok and tied it off to the log; then collecting the survival pack from the front of the craft; he slung it over his shoulder and set off along the river bank in search of its source.

Karyn, Sacha, and Anton had set off into the southern swamp quite early to avoid the clouds of mosquitoes that rose as the sun warmed their lairs amongst the boggy pools of brackish green water scattered with tufts of sickly-looking grass. They tried to keep to the firmer peaty ground that supported their weight, although even these areas oozed slimy water which came up to their ankles; while the pockets of methane in the thawed upper level of the permafrost belched gently, and rose around them like an invisible cloud of smelly rotten eggs. Their progress was slow, and careful. This was the notoriously deceptive "Mochazhina"... land permanently wet from the outflow of underground water from off the surrounding watershed of low hills which had no means to drain off the plateau that supported the Southern swamp.

A Russian bog such as this was truly one of the most treacherous bastards you could ever wish to encounter. It was waiting on either side, thick and brown, and evil, ever greedy for prey. Dotted about were inviting tussocks of coarse grass that could be used as hand-holds, should their feet slip; but these too, were treacherous. Grab hold of one, and it would come away in your grasp and overbalance you into the waiting swamp. It was not difficult to move from one stretch of peat to another. This firmer ground could be recognised by the scrubby herbs, occasional bushes; and abundant mosses and lichens.

Occasionally, they came upon a large root stump that had not quite rotted away; but otherwise, the whole swamp was devoid of trees, save for Kulik's "Telegraph pole forest" in the very centre of the depression. These trees stood gaunt in the morning sun. They had been directly under the blast and their crowns had been torn off; having been stripped of their branches as effectively as a carpenter using a draw-knife. Kulik had postulated that the trunks of the Telegraph pole forest had remained standing because they were perfectly aligned with the force of the explosion. Out from the very centre, the trees had disintegrated; leaving this empty area. Further away from the centre, the trees were intact, yet flattened down onto the ground and pointing away from the centre.

The centre where the stripped trees still stood was really just one extensive bog. Perhaps it had once been solid peat bog rather than the cloying swampy area that faced them, before whatever happened here took place. Whatever it was that had caused this utter desolation on this place really was beyond the realms of comprehension. As they stood and wondered; Anton misplaced his footing, and before he could regain his balance had sunk one leg into the morass up to his hip. They grabbed him before he fell into the putrid bog and dragged him back onto firmer land. He shook his leg and laughed.

'These Portyanki really do work! Only the very top is wet!'

Karyn gave him a withering, reproachful glance.

I'm glad you find it amusing, Anton. If you'd gone in any farther we wouldn't have been able to drag you out.'

Anton gave her an admonished glance.

'Yes Ma'am... Sorry Ma'am.'

Considering the terrain; Lifshen was making exceptionally good progress. He had chosen to follow the rising ground of the lower slopes of Mount Shakharma rather than stay on the flatter, boggier ground surrounding the eastern flank of the mountain. He was following the course of the Churgim River as it narrowed towards its source. His map showed that it rose on the northern slopes of the mountain. His water supply was diminishing, and he might find a clean spring at the head of the river that was rapidly becoming a stream; increasing in speed as the ground rose. Soon, it became a shallow, tinkling brook rushing down the mountainside. It was crystal-clear as it tumbled over the stones and gravel. What was eerie, was the silence. No birds sang on Mount Shakharma. All that could be heard above the tinkle of the water was the wind and the high-pitched whine of the mosquitoes... and even that was starting to diminish as he climbed higher.

On the northern flank of the mountain Lifshen discovered the source of the stream... two springs bubbling out of the ground and collecting in a small pool. It looked clear enough, but was it safe? He knelt, and unslung the emergency survival pack he had been issued with back in Vanavara. Opening the fasteners; he scrutinised the contents. Next to the water container tins was a small, white bakelite dish containing a tin marked:

"Yad - ne glotat"… "Poison - Do Not Swallow."

He carefully removed the dish and tin. Beneath it was a folded instruction sheet. He unfolded, and read the paper; noting the dire warning that water treated with one of the tablets contained in the tin was fatal if ingested, and that such water was to be disposed of well away from the water source to be tested. If the water was tainted in any way, the tablet would turn it pink. Lifshen removed the tin and carefully unscrewed the lid. The tin contained ten small, white, innocuous-looking tablets. He dipped the bakelite dish into the first spring; half-filled the dish, and carefully dropped in one of the tablets which fizzed as it dissolved. He watched carefully. The water remained clear. Tipping the water away some distance from the springs, he returned, and washed out the dish downstream from the spring. He then repeated the test on the second spring. The result was the same. So, the water was pure. He moved away again and tipped the tested water from the dish.

Returning to the springs, he filled his water bottles, and tentatively raised one to his lips. He took a mouthful. It tasted sweet. Even so; he would keep them for emergencies and rely instead on the water contained in the emergency survival pack containers for now. He gazed out across the now-visible eastern reaches of the Tunguska depression towards Mount Farrington; overawed at even this limited sight of the extent of the devastation. Out across the swamp there was virtually nothing still standing... even after all this time. He packed up his equipment and moved on around the flank of the mountain.