Last Of the Breed (1986) Read online

  The sun was high and the sky cloudless. With a broken branch still retaining some foliage, he tried steering the drift log, moving in toward the shore.

  He judged the drift to have been about two miles an hour, and when he finally edged the tree to shore at least eight hours had passed. He beached the tree with several of its kind and staggered ashore, his legs stiff from holding virtually a single position. He was hungry, but he had been hungry before. Working his way back into the woods he made a bed in the moss and leaves and lay down to sleep.

  Hours later he awakened, drank from a nearby stream, and sat down again to study his situation.

  He did not know where be was except in a very general sense. He was east or northeast of Lake Baikal, possibly in an area known as Yakutia, which was now undergoing rapid development. Hence, he might come upon people at any time. These he must avoid.

  He must travel with extreme care not to be seen or to leave any vestige behind that might arouse the curiosity of dwellers in the country.

  He would need food, warmer clothing, a weapon, and if he could find it, a blanket. Somewhere, somehow, he must learn his location. At present what he needed was distance. Travel on the river had been slow and very risky, but also it meant no trail was left behind. Following the river was an easy way, but one that would grow ever more perilous.

  Food could wait. At times he had gone several days without eating, and he could do so again.

  Among the fallen timber and broken limbs he found a staff that suited his purpose. It would help in walking and would be a weapon if he needed it. And he knew how to fight with a stick.

  He started walking, moving away from the river. He had gone but a few hundred yards when he came upon a trail, evidently a game trail but perhaps used by hunters as well, He walked along at a steady pace, ears alert for any sound, eyes constantly seeking, searching.

  Long ago he had attended a lecture given by an Army Intelligence officer on Siberia and its terrain. His memory was geared to such things, and he tried now to recall what had been said and what had been pointed out on the blown-up map. There were low mountains, much swamp, and an involved river system. Despite the cold, much of the country in the Trans-Baikal received little snowfall.

  Lake Baikal he remembered well, as it is one of the most interesting bodies of water on the planet. Some four hundred miles long, in places more than fifty miles wide, and over five thousand feet deep, it holds a large part of the fresh water on earth. Visited often by Russian tourists, it was also a haven for the Japanese who were playing a major role in the development of Siberian industry. The Japanese were relying on the Trans-Baikal for much of their raw material.

  Since his capture he had been trying to reconstruct mentally that map he had seen and to recall what he had heard. Fortunately he had always liked to read, and the books his grandfather had brought from the Hudson’s Bay post had included many on Canada, the Bering Strait, and the coasts opposite.

  Four of the largest rivers on earth flowed out of Siberia. If he was where he believed, the nearest river was the Lena, and the Amur would be off to the south, some of it along the Manchurian border.

  Several times he paused to listen, but heard nothing but a soft wind blowing through the trees. Occasionally he saw birds. Grouse seemed common and a kind of lark that was unfamiliar to him.

  Squatting near a piece of bare earth he tried to redraw from memory the map he had studied. South was the Amur and north the Lena. He was now east of Lake Baikal and moving toward the faraway coast, toward the Bering Strait and the Sea of Okhotsk. Between the Bering Strait and his present position lay several low ranges of mountains, much forest, swamp, and tundra lying just below or within the Arctic Circle.

  The Yablonovyi, the Stanovoy, and the Verkhoyansk mountains lay between him and his objective, and some of the coldest land on earth.

  Moving as he must, with great care, and traveling on foot, there was no way he could escape Siberia before winter. Nor was there any way in which he could last out the winter.

  He had not the clothing, the shelter, or the supply of food necessary.

  At more than fifty below, rubber tires crack and metal becomes fragile. If a car survives two to three years the owner is fortunate.

  And winter was coming, with temperatures that would hover between fifty and eighty degrees below zero.

  He stood up and with his boot he rubbed out his crude map. He started on, and just over the mountains the cold awaited.

  Icy, bitter, deathly cold …

  Chapter 4

  Colonel Zamatev was sitting behind his table when Pennington entered the room. On the bench at one side sat Lieutenant Suvarov and the Yakut, Alekhin. There was a chair placed near the table that faced all three.

  Zamatev gestured to the chair. “Sit down, please.” The Colonel had been an attache in both London and Paris. He spoke English and French with equal fluency.

  Pennington seated himself warily. What lay before him he did not know. Did they know he had helped the American?

  “Major Makatozi has escaped, and you talked with him.”

  “A few words during the exercise period.”

  “Nevertheless, you did speak. Did he tell you he planned to escape?”

  “Would it be likely? He would not have trusted someone he did not know. He is an Indian. I do not believe they talk very much. Not, at least, to a strange white man.”

  Makatozi was gone, and what harm could speaking do now? “As a matter of fact,” he added, “he did say something about leaving. I believe he disliked the accommodations.” Pennington smiled. “Even Indians expect better.”

  Zamatev ignored the comment. He seemed disposed to be affable. What he wanted was information. Pennington considered that while he waited for the next question. He knew of nothing he could say that would affect the American’s chances, and he wished to apply the needle.

  “Anything you can tell us might help him,” Zamatev suggested. “I am sure the Major had no idea what he was escaping to. You see, we had plans for the Major as we do for you. Both of you can be employed here, can live in comfort and security and have a better life than in your own countries.

  “Escape from Siberia is impossible! Soon it will be winter. Without clothing, food, and shelter a man cannot exist.

  “If he is unfortunate enough to elude pursuit, the land will kill him. I have seen men frozen, but we rarely find them before the wild animals have been at them. If you could help us — ?”

  Pennington had no intention of helping, nor did he know anything of the American, who had made no mention of his plans once he was over the wire. However, he had once done a paper on the Sioux. At the time he had been wavering between chemistry, his first love, and a developing interest in anthropology.

  “Major Makatozi,” he commented, “is a Sioux. They were a warrior people, noted for their courage and their ability to bear great pain without flinching. A Sioux warrior was conditioned to endure long periods of hunger and exposure. It was their belief that it was better to die in battle than to live to an old age.”

  Pennington smiled again. “You have chosen a formidable antagonist, Colonel Zamatev.”

  “I had hoped you would help us, and him.” Zamatev was curt. “If you can, you are a fool not to do so. We have use for him; otherwise we would just let him go. Siberia would provide its own solution.”

  He stood erect. “Lieutenant! Take the prisoner to his cell.” Then he added, “I do not believe Mr. Pennington has much of an appetite. Two days without food may enable him to understand the Major’s situation.”

  When Pennington had gone, Zamatev seated himself. He had expected no more than he had gotten, but there was always a chance that Makatozi had dropped a hint or even confided in Pennington.

  Zamatev’s position had been secure. He was a known man of known abilities. That he had been permitted this project was evidence of it. Zamatev was also an ambitious man, although his ambitions were carefully hidden. He was a good Party man as
well as an efficient officer, and so far he had made no mistakes. He had begun this particular task with a few small successes, and now, suddenly, he was caught in a situation that could ruin his career.

  Zamatev dismissed Alekhin and leaned back in his chair. He needed to think.

  The American had pole-vaulted over the wire. There was no other explanation, but who could have dreamt of such an act? There had been a blackout, which needed no investigation. How the momentary shorting of the lights had been accomplished, was obvious enough. Carelessness, pure carelessness!

  The American had escaped. A thorough search of the area had turned up nothing. The search had been mounted within four minutes, yet the American had vanished.

  Had he gotten help from outside the prison? No one knew he was a prisoner and no such arrangements could have been made in the time available.

  The usual quick sweep of the area had been carried out, a search that moved in steadily widening circles. They had seen nothing, found nothing.

  The obvious escape route toward China had been covered. Border troops, already on the alert, had been ordered to watch for an escaped prisoner. That border was protected in depth, and the soldiers were prepared for invasion or raids by the Chinese.

  To the Trans-Siberian Railway? It was not far away and offered the quickest escape from the country. A man would need a ticket and a passport or a visa. The American would have neither, yet people had used that method of escape, and it could not be dismissed.

  Colonel Zamatev had ambitions. He also had enemies who would be quick to discredit him, so he had no wish to broadcast the escape. As the existence of his prison was known to only a handful of officials this was easily arranged, but much depended on the immediate recapture of the American.

  For a moment his thoughts turned eastward. Hardly to be considered. It was too far, too rugged, too cold. The American had no weapons, he lacked proper clothing for even this time of year, and he did not know the country. Yet he would alert people to the eastward, too.

  That he would recapture Makatozi he had no doubt. Escape was impossible, and summer was more than half gone. If the man was not taken he would surely surrender or die in the intense cold.

  Nothing positive had so far resulted from the search. A few tracks had been found in the woods where he had first fled but they gave no indication of anything except an urge to get away. Obviously the man had escaped the immediate search area before the searchers arrived.

  Although Colonel Zamatev had himself been born in Siberia, he came of an old Ukrainian family, and his father and grandfather had both been generals. His father had been closely associated with Marshal Vasily Blucher, perhaps the greatest military genius the Soviet Union had produced. But Blucher had become too well known and too popular, and as a result he disappeared in one of the Stalinist purges of the 1930s.

  Blucher had served in China under the name of Galin and had helped to train the Nationalist Chinese army at a time when the Nationalist Chinese were inviting help from Russia. Along with Michael Borodin he was thrown out of China, but later, in an undeclared war against the Japanese, he defeated them in one of the greatest tank battles ever fought.

  General Zamatev, hoping to stay as far from Stalin’s attention as possible, had volunteered to serve in Siberia and remained there. He had, however, kept many old friendships, and not a few of them had aided the rise of Arkady Zamatev.

  Colonel Zamatev was under no delusion. He knew peace was an illusory thing, something that hovered on a distant horizon, for which all men wished but which had only a small chance of realization as long as men remained what they were. There was now no declared war between the Soviet Union and anyone else, but there was war nonetheless, a bitter, ruthless war for military and communication advantages, and he was in the front line of that war and planned to remain there.

  That he had already been considered for promotion, he knew. If he failed with Pennington and Makatozi, that promotion would never come about, or not for many years. He was thirty-five and hoped to be a field marshal by the time he was fifty. What else remained to be seen.

  Pennington might never come over to the Soviets. That whatever he knew about chemical warfare would be his, Zamatev was sure. Pennington could not be forced to join the Soviets, but he could be made to talk. There were drugs that would take care of that, as well as a few time-worn and less gentle methods.

  Pennington, however, was of much less importance than the American. Makatozi could not be allowed to escape.

  Zamatev reviewed what had been done. The troops along the border had been alerted, as had police officials throughout the Trans-Baikal, especially in Chita, Nerchinsk, and such villages as Romanovka, Bagdarin, Vitimkon, and Vershina.

  Airfields had been alerted as well, for the escaped prisoner was a flyer who might attempt to steal a plane.

  Now he could do little but await the American’s capture.

  Zamatev walked outside. It was one of those bright, clear days so common in the Trans-Baikal. He looked eastward toward the mountains, where one peak was almost a mile high. That was rough country, not an easy way to travel, and so far as he was aware no paths crossed those mountains, but he had never explored widely outside the compound. He scowled impatiently, irritably. He should know the country better.

  The telephone sounded and he turned quickly. Maybe they had him! Maybe —

  It was Shepilov, KGB. “Is it true? There has been an escape?”

  “From Siberia? That’s a joke.”

  “But I heard — ?”

  So, already the word was out! Were there no secrets in this land?

  “It is nothing,” he said, keeping his tone casual. “A minor difficulty, no more.”

  Shepilov was in a sense his superior, but in another department. And Shepilov did not like him. He resented Zamatev’s friendships in Moscow, his influence in the higher reaches of command.

  “If you need help — ?”

  “Thank you, but we will manage nicely.” He hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. He swore then, softly, bitterly. To have this happen now! Now, when all was going so well!

  Who would dream that a man could go over the wire?

  Tomorrow they would have him, tomorrow without fail.

  For a moment he sat thinking, and then he lifted the phone again. He made three calls, mobilizing still stronger searching parties.

  The bastard! Where had he gotten to? Why was he not already caught?

  Tomorrow night there was a meeting he must attend, and surely he would be questioned, if only casually. His activities were little known, and talk about them was not welcomed, but there was a lively curiosity, and some, such as Shepilov, knew a little. Such a search as he had now instituted was sure to excite comment.

  Irritably, Zamatev walked to the window, staring out at the low mountains. Despite his ambitions, which if realized would take him to Moscow, Zamatev loved Siberia, although sometimes it worried him that the manners were more casual here, that there was, or seemed to be, less respect. To get the technical people to come out here and stay they had to be accorded privileges as well as much higher pay, and this had brought innovators and thinkers, men and women whose ideas did not always agree with those expressed in Moscow. As yet there had been no trouble, nor did Zamatev believe such people would go too far, yet a bridle must be put upon some of the free thinking.

  His thoughts returned to the American. Where could he go? What would he do? He must have food. He would need warmer clothing.

  He would steal. But from whom? Some isolated miner, trapper, or scientific station? A theft would draw an immediate report, and then they could concentrate their search.

  Zamatev walked back to his table and sat down heavily. Soon, they must have him soon. It was impossible for him to remain unseen.

  Why did the telephone not ring?

  Some fifty miles away, not far from where the Tsipa River flowed into the Kalar, Joe Mack was huddled in a thick grove of mixed Japanese stone pine and
larch watching a shack built against a cliff. Two men lived there, and one of them had just started off with an empty backpack. He had taken a path to the south, and from the way he had waved good-bye he had expected to be gone for more than a few hours. He was probably going to town.

  The other man watched him go; then, taking some tools, he went into the portal of a mine tunnel.

  Joe Mack waited an instant longer, and then using a carefully plotted route he went down the slope, keeping under cover until within fifty feet of the house.

  He waited, trying to breathe evenly. He must make the attempt, even at the risk of discovery. An instant he poised, then he was across the open space and into the house.

  A quick glance around. Warm clothing on hooks. He reached under one coat and took a thick sweatshirt. Quickly to the shelves. Rows of canned goods. He selected a dozen cans, taking them from the front row and moving others into their place so their loss would not be detected. He made a sack out of the shirt and put the cans in it.

  There was much here he could use, but he wasted no time. Another quick glance around.

  A hunting knife! It was under a table, lying upon some chunks of firewood.

  He caught it up, took a quick look, and was out of the door and across the open space. There he paused and glanced back. No one in sight. The earth was packed hard, and he believed he had left no tracks. Carrying his sack, he climbed higher. When he had reached a point from which he could watch, he squatted on his heels and opened the first can.

  Fish, of a kind he did not know. He had not eaten in two days so he ate with care. A bit, a nibble, then a bite. He drank a little of the oil in the can. Then he waited, but his stomach did not react. After a while he ate a little more, then drank from a trickle of water running from a crack in the rock. Crawling under some fallen boughs, he slept.

  In the first light of morning, he finished the fish, then began to study the river. From where he sat he could see that the river he had been following flowed into a larger stream that flowed off to the northeast.