Black operator complete.., p.30
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 30
"Not dead. They captured her and took her to the gulag."
"In that case, she’s as good as dead. A pity. I assume these men wish to get out of Russia and stay one step ahead of the FSB?"
He nodded. "You're right about the FSB, but they don't want to get out of Russia. They want to go deeper into Russia. To Siberia."
"Siberia? Why on earth would anyone want to go to Siberia?"
Then he made the connection, "You're not serious, my friends. You’re not thinking of going there and rescuing the fair maiden?" He grinned at Mikhail and Nikolai as they reddened, "Do I take it you two men really think you can waltz into a gulag, and get out alive? If that’s the case, forget it. People go to the gulags to die. They never come back.”
Both men fixed him with a hard stare, and Mikhail said, "That's exactly what we're going to do. With your help."
Peter Schiller roared with laughter and glanced at his co-pilot and engineer Manfred Neumann. "Did you hear that? They want to travel to Siberia. They want us to fly east in the Dragon Rapide and touch down somewhere close to a gulag. Storm the front gates, and shoot their way in. Find where they’re holding Tereshkova, and get her out."
Neumann took several puffs of his cigarette. He was German, for despite his Russian nationality, Schiller wouldn’t recruit his fellow Russians. Not out of any antipathy to the country his grandfather had adopted, but because of their chronic drink problem. Manfred couldn't have been more different than Schiller. Short, round-shouldered, with lank, dark hair and dark eyes, he bore a faint resemblance to the former Nazi dictator. Schiller maintained he was a capable pilot, and a genius as an engineer. He was also a wanted fugitive. Neumann had got out of Germany several years before. One step ahead of the cops, after he killed a man who'd tried to con him out of his share of the proceeds of a cargo of drugs.
He took his time, put down his cigarette, and shook his head. "They’re dreamers, Peter. No shortage of such fools, not in the ‘New Russia.’ We should lend them a gun each, and tell them to go out and blow their brains out. It would be quicker and much less painful."
Peter Schiller looked back at Mikhail. "Forget this nonsense, and forget about Tereshkova. Go away, and think yourself lucky you’re still alive. I tell you what I’ll do for you. We'll get you out of Russia for a fair price. We can't do any more."
Sergeant Gurko intervened. "Peter, this is Maria Tereshkova we're talking about. She’s our last hope for this country, before the thieves and oligarchs steal everything they haven’t already taken."
"You think another politician could change things? Maybe she could, and maybe not. But you're forgetting something, Anton. Siberia. Like I said to this person, you don't just fly down to Siberia and storm a gulag. It can't be done.”
"Why not?" Mikhail was staring at him with a look that bordered on contempt, "Is it because you're afraid?"
It didn't stir Schiller into anger. Instead, his smile broadened. "Afraid? You're damn right I'm afraid. Listen to me, boy. Let me explain a few facts of life. The aircraft outside this hut is a de Havilland DH.89 Dragon Rapide. She was built in the 1930s in Britain, and she’s a short-haul biplane, an airliner designed to carry six to eight passengers or freight. Short haul, you understand? The maximum range is around five hundred and seventy miles. Siberia is what, two and a half thousand miles from here, at least four refueling stops to have a chance of making it. That baby has been flying for eighty years, and with luck, it'll give us a few years more service. That means making repairs en route, and if we nurse it along, we can just about manage short trips. Not thousands of miles."
He shrugged. "So? Make the arrangements to refuel along the way.”
He chuckled. “You think it’s that easy? We don't have the necessary licenses to land at commercial airfields. Neither do we have type approval, engine hours certificates, airworthiness permits; they don't exist. Our business is, shall we say, unofficial."
“You could carry spare drums of fuel, surely that would do it?"
"No, it wouldn't. Carrying enough fuel to get us there would overload the aircraft, and we wouldn't get off the ground. It's a no-go, forget it."
"How much?"
He looked up. "You're asking how much I would charge to risk my life in such a crazy venture? More money than you could imagine."
"Money isn’t a problem."
His expression changed. "Go on."
"Maria Tereshkova is wealthy. If you help us, she’ll pay you enough to buy yourself a half decent aircraft, and sell that ancient bucket of bolts to the nearest scrapyard."
Neumann leapt to his feet, his expression angry. "That bucket of bolts, as you call it, has taken us across most of Russia and brought us back safe. She’s stayed in the air during storms and mechanical breakdowns, when other aircraft would have crashed long before. Don't knock something you don't know anything about."
Mikhail had him on the defensive, and he pressed on, needling his pride. "You said yourself, it won't make it to Siberia. It doesn’t sound too impressive to me.”
He could see Peter was thinking something through in his head. He looked at Neumann, who shrugged and looked back at Mikhail. “It could be done, I guess. Special arrangements, bribes, it may be possible. Are you certain she’s wealthy?”
“Yes.”
He thought for a little longer, looked at Manfred, and shook his head. "Forget it. We wouldn’t make it, not there and back, and rescue a political prisoner. No way.”
“Name your price.”
"One hundred thousand."
Mikhail did his best not to blink. “Dollars or rubles."
Both men roared with laughter. Schiller recovered first. "Rubles, yeah, that’d be something to paper the walls of this hut. U.S. dollars, and I'd expect her to pay on completion of the job. Otherwise, I’d fly her straight back to Siberia."
Mikhail swapped gazes with Nikolai, who shrugged. He nodded and looked back at Schiller. "Done. When can we leave?"
Sergeant Gurko interrupted. "First, I must return to the Militia Post and try to find out where they’re holding her. It could take time, several hours."
Schiller nodded. "These men can stay here. Make sure you’re back by nightfall with the information we need."
The cop nodded. "I'll be back, and I'll bring those items I promised."
Schiller raised an eyebrow. "Items?"
"Guns. Weapons, it's no good trying to handle those guards with just their fists."
He nodded. "The guards, yes. You'd better bring plenty of guns.”
He left, and they spent the rest of the day in the hut. For most of the time they were on their own. The two pilots were taking the job seriously, spending most of their time outside in the biting cold, working on the plane, checking everything several times over, and topping up the tanks to the brim. Schiller spent a lot of time on his cellphone, standing outside to prevent them overhearing, and they assumed he was fixing up the refueling stops. By 18.00, darkness was falling, and Sergeant Gurko returned in the Zil. He climbed out, and Mikhail handed him a mug of hot tea. He nodded his appreciation.
"God, but it's cold out there. Those jeeps could do with a heater."
"Did you get it?"
"I did, although not without great deal of trouble. They’re holding her in Gulag Sakha 1. I don't know about the men, but I would assume they’re at a nearby men's camp. There’s a landing strip about a half kilometer from Gulag Sakha 1, and you should be able to land there."
Schiller nodded his understanding and looked at Neumann. “Manfred, let's take a look at the chart for that area, and work out how we’re going to do this.”
They traced their route with a pencil and ruler working out airspeeds, distances, and fuel consumption. They penciled in the places they would need to stop, the names of the airfields, and the men to bribe to give them the fuel. No questions asked. Finally, Schiller looked up. "I believe we have it all. Anton, did you bring the guns?"
"Everything I could find. Handguns, assault rifles, and several grenades."
The other man spun around. "Grenades? Your militia is using grenades these days?"
“They are for emergencies. Insurrection, serious armed riots, things like that.”
No one commented. It was enough to know a civilian police force had grenades. A mark of the amount of trust the Kremlin had in its citizens. They unloaded the weapons from the Zil and watched them walk out to the Dragon Rapide. They clambered into the cabin and began stowing the guns, AKMs, old, well-used 9mm Makarov pistols, and the grenades in four small wooden cases, six in each.
Their first impression of the aircraft was of age-old decay. Everything was worn and shabby, and it had a sweet, rank smell that Mikhail soon recognized as cannabis, which explained how Schiller and his co-pilot made the bulk of their money. The co-pilot told them to take a seat in the space behind the cockpit, and when they asked about seat belts, he frowned. "We used to have to have seat belts, but the material rotted during a particularly hot summer. They were replacements for the originals, Soviet-made replacements."
He didn't need to say any more. The Soviet reputation for manufacturing quality, or lack of it, was something of a legend. They waited while Schiller went through his pre-flight checks, and he shouted back to the passengers, “This’ll be noisy. I’m starting engines.”
He hit the starboard engine start button, and the starter motor whirred for almost a minute until he stopped. He glanced at his co-pilot, shrugged, and tried again. Nothing.
“You any ideas about this?”
“Nope. You know what it’s like, temperamental as a virgin on her first date. Try it again.” Another minute passed, the starter motor whirred, and still nothing.
Twenty-four hours later, they were still on the ground, the engine casing discarded while they struggled to locate the cause, which they’d diagnosed as a blockage in the fuel line. Mikhail and Nikolai could only stare at each other in frustration, living and reliving the agonies of not knowing if they would ever get there. And if they did make it across the frozen vastness of Siberia, would it be too late.
Chapter Two
They tossed her into a tiny, windowless room with walls constructed of crude, unfinished logs. No attempt at niceties, and the sole furniture consisted of a single chair and a small table. Captain Karpov entered the room and seated herself on the chair. Exhausted, Maria slumped to the floor, in desperate need of a rest. In need of sleep, hot food, anything to relieve the nightmare place. The floor was the most she could hope for. And she wasn’t to get that.
"You will stand while I speak to you, Prisoner Tereshkova."
She climbed to her feet. In any case, the floor was as cold as the permafrost outside. She’d never felt more alone. When they’d arrived at the railway station, the guards sent Rhodes and Kennedy to the men’s camp nearby, and her to the women’s gulag. She was even colder than she'd been during the long train journey, locked into the cattle car, and then Cris had hugged her to him for warmth. Now they’d taken him somewhere else, and this angelic young woman was staring at if she were a piece of meat. Captain Karpov’s eyes were dead, like those of a fish on a slab. Maria felt like she was a slaughterhouse animal, waiting for the executioner to administer the jolt of electricity that would consign her to oblivion.
"Why did you come back?"
She jerked her attention to the beautiful face. Her mind had been wandering, and she knew she’d have to stay sharp for any chance of surviving this place for the first few days.
"I am Russian. I live here."
The reply was almost casual. "Wrong, you are a traitor to Russia. A traitor to the President, and you are lucky he hasn't killed you. Not yet."
God knows they tried hard enough, yet somehow Cris always managed to beat them. This time, they’ve won.
She summoned her courage. "Have you brought me here to waste my time arguing politics?"
A shake of the head." My boss has learned of certain private information in your possession. Where do you keep this information?"
“Go fuck yourself.”
The Captain leapt to her feet, and in a blindingly fast move, slashed her across the face. She was wearing a ring, and Maria felt the metal gouge into her skin, "You are lying. We know you have hidden it somewhere. Tell me where it is, and I will make things easier for you. We will even let you live.”
She managed to smile and felt the blood dripping down her face. "Let me live? How long can anyone live in this place?"
“There are worse ways of dying," Karpov said, "Don't make this any harder. Give me the location, and I'll arrange for warm food and a comfortable room for the duration of your sentence."
“I wasn’t aware I'd been sentenced."
She waved a dismissal. “No doubt they will notify you in due course. Where is it?"
"No."
Karpov snatched out her gun and jerked the barrel across the other side of her face, slashing another deep cut into the skin. Then she lost it, came around the table, and slammed a fist into Maria's belly. Her face contorted with rage, and she began pistol-whipping her with the gun, beating her all over her body. All she could do was collapse to the floor and hold her arms around her head, trying to protect herself from the blows. Through a haze of pain, she heard Katya demanding she say where the documents were hidden.
“I don't have anything to tell you. You’re wasting your time.”
She climbed to her feet. "We are done here. Guard, take this fool away. Hard labor, bread and water for one week. If she survives, we’ll talk about it later. And no warm clothing, is that clear?"
The guard, his brutal face unmistakably Mongolian, looked puzzled. "Captain, on such a harsh regime and without warm clothing, she will die very quickly. I doubt she'll last more than two or three days."
“Then it’ll put her out of her misery sooner rather than later. Get on with it."
* * *
He stared at the man who’d just entered the hut. "Who are you?"
"The name’s Yuri, I live here, and I’m serving fifteen years. Who are you?"
"I'm the man who doesn't intend to stay any longer than necessary. How many years have you served?"
A shrug. “Two, maybe three. In this place, a man loses track of time."
He showed them which bunks were vacant and took pleasure in telling them the fate of the previous occupants. One had caught dysentery, after the poor diet left him unable to hold down food. The other froze to death during a punishment detail. They ordered him to stand at attention for a whole night. In the morning, he was frozen solid. Other prisoners had to take pickaxes and chip away at the ice to free him from the frozen surface.
Cris asked him what he'd done to wind up in this place.
“I was a hacker. I am a hacker, one of the best.”
“That doesn’t sound like a major crime.”
“The sites I hacked were the offshore accounts of certain high-level politicians. Some close to the Kremlin, too close.”
He was another ‘Enemy of the State.’ Or rather, ‘Enemy of the President and his corrupt inner circle.’
Kennedy ignored them and lay on his bunk, hunched up in misery. Moaning over and over how he shouldn’t be there, that he was innocent of any crime. They ignored him. An hour later, a guard entered the hut.
“Roll call, everyone outside. Move!”
Sebastian climbed to his feet and approached the guard. He was wearing his best smile, the one he put on for the movers and shakers in the political world. “You have to listen to me, officer. I shouldn’t be here. I…”
He doubled over and vomited when the guard slammed his rifle butt into his belly.
“Roll call, outside. Now!”
Evening roll call meant hundreds of men standing still for almost three hours in the bitter cold while they tallied the numbers of prisoners. Finally, almost unable to move his limbs, he followed the man in front of him and filed past the cook. He ladled out a single bowl of watery soup for each prisoner, and Cris gulped it down as he walked back to the hut. He forced himself to control the impulse to retch. What little nutrients the soup contained he would need to survive.
Survival was the only way he could do anything to help Maria. He'd spoken to the hacker, Yuri, who told him Maria would be held in one of the nearby women's camps. Just a few short kilometers away, yet it may as well be a continent. To free her would mean defeating the heavily armed guards, crossing the rolls of razor wire, and hiking across several kilometers of Arctic permafrost in a weakened and cold state. With no protective clothing, his chances of survival would be close to zero, making her chances of survival as good as zero. Back in the hut, he slept fitfully, with just a thin blanket, little more than a threadbare cotton sheet, to ward off the worsening cold. In the morning, another roll call, another bowl of thin soup, and they marched them off to work. They weren't chained, but they may as well have been. They hiked through the snow, surrounded by guards who looked eager to use their AK-47s to open fire on any prisoner who tried to escape. They spent the entire day chopping trees with blunted axes. They fastened ropes to the trunks, and a score of prisoners would drag the trunk back to the camp. More prisoners attacked the balks of timber with long saws to cut them into convenient sizes. Yet more prisoners loaded the logs onto a truck, and when the day's work had ended, the truck drove away.
Another roll call, the bowl of thin soup, and the following day was no different. More backbreaking work hacking trees, dragging logs, and another endless roll call. By that evening, he knew he'd run out of time, was running out of strength. Kennedy had still not spoken, and he just shuffled along like a zombie. But his accusing gazes made it clear he blamed Cris at least in part for their predicament. He ignored him. He had other things on his mind. The light had already faded, and when they extinguished the lights inside the hut, he whispered to Yuri lying in an adjoining bunk.
"You have to help me. A person's life is at stake."
He heard a quiet chuckle. "All of our lives are at stake, my friend. We are here to die. What else did you think?"
