John Schettler - 9 Days Falling, Volume I

The more Byrne thought about this sudden new assignment, the more it dawned on him that there was real opportunity here for the sake of his own fledgling career as well. He could get out of the newsroom for a change and do some real reporting. No more jostling with copy boys, though he would miss a few of those fresh young faces. No more listening to irascible old Margaret on the circulation desk reading addresses back to customers on the telly. No more questions from Aunt Agony for the reader's daily advice column. As he thought about it, it was actually beginning to feel a bit exciting! He blinked away his fears, and extended his hand to shake on the matter, accepting his assignment as he knew he would in the end. Yet instead of a handshake Harmsworth reached into his pocket and produced a thick rolled cigar, slipping it into his palm with a smile.

“Enjoy it,” he winked. “The trip and the cigar. Take good care of that. It's a real Marcella brand, the landmark of enjoyment. Get the gullyfluff out of your pockets and keep it safe. Smoke it when you first set eyes on Siberia. It'll do you some good and put a bit of the dash-fire in you.” He looked at his watch. “Well now, that will be all, Byrne. Take the rest of the day off and get yourself squared away. But be here by six sharp in the morning. We'll have a car take you to the ferry. Cable me the first Monday each week and advise on your progress. Off you go now.” He waved at the door, his attention already diverted to a sheaf of papers on his thick mahogany desk top.

“Very well, sir,” Byrne stammered. “You can rely on me, sir.” He made a slow retreat to the frosted glass door and slipped out, back in the hall before he ran his hand through his thick sandy blonde hair and straightened the fold of his brown herringbone tweed coat. Siberia! Where in the world was he going? He had a thousand things to do before the morning came. He had to settle his rent with Mrs. Jameson and see if she would be willing to hold his flat for a few months or even longer. Those extra fifty pounds in gold coinage would make for easy inducement. He was sure he had no worries there. She could see to his mail, and notify anyone who came along as to his whereabouts.

Beyond that, he had to consider the journey itself. What would he need? Harmsworth's comment about a pair of good boots made perfect sense. And he resolved to head over to Ponsy's Clothiers and footwear at once. He would need a heavier coat, his own being quite threadbare these days. Gloves, scarves, sweaters, wool trousers and socks, warm long underwear, a decent hat or two…The list ran through his mind now. And he would have to pack a respectable Dopp Kit as well: comb and brush, shaving kit, shampoo, razors, nail clippers, cologne, some Calox tooth powder, a few good bars of soap and an extra pair of specs. Should he pick up one of those nifty Clarke's Pyramid Food warmers—good for hot water, tea, warming up small tidbits of food or even use as a convenient night lamp? Perhaps an authentic Samovar in Russia would do just as well, and be much cheaper in the bargain.

He remembered an advertisement he had seen in the paper the other day—Mappins & Webb Newmarket Crocodile Suitcase fitted with every requirement for the gentlemen. It was all of forty-five pounds, however, and well beyond his means, even counting in the hundred-fifty pounds he was to receive in the morning. He would have to use his old luggage, but that decided, the excitement of this imminent voyage began to well in him.

He remembered how he had hurried down the long hallway, practically floating down the steps, his fears allayed, his heart lightened and the thirst for adventure and discovery on him. Yet as he hastened past the front desk he spied a headline that roused a faint stirring of unrest in him. “The Fatal Journey of Mylius Erichsen,” read the headline. The story was being written by another staff writer, about the Danish author and arctic explorer noted for his expeditions mapping out the coasts and fiords of Greenland—the 'Land That Is Lonelier Than Ruin. ' He had been misled by an older map, became lost, and perished from lack of food before he could right the error and safely navigate his way home.

Where in the world am I going? Again the question roiled to life in his mind. Siberia? He could vanish into that wilderness and never be seen or heard from again. A staff writer would pen his thin eulogy: “The Fatal Journey of Thomas Byrne,” and that would be the end of him—the end of all his ambitions, his dreams of success as a writer, his hope for love, family, children in some warm distant future he could scarcely even imagine now.

Yes, he thought. I could be swallowed alive by the frozen taiga, or end up in the belly of a big Siberian wolf! I might flounder in a muddy bog, or be eaten alive by mosquitoes when the land thaws. I might be waylaid on the road by a band of bloody, heartless Cossacks. It was enough to rattle the nerves of even the most hardy and manly people he could imagine. Yes, all of that could happen, or worse. He could not have known what actually would happen to him, something more outlandish than he could even imagine.

But not today… Today he was sitting in a hotel dining room in a small town east of Krasnoyarsk, as far east as he could get, just as Harmsworth had urged him. He had already interviewed the leading American race team on the speedy ‘Thomas Flyer’ car. They had stolen a march on the Germans and had pushed on to Tomsk to the east two days ago. The Germans were in second place, 234 miles behind as they pulled into Ilanskiy late the previous evening, and they were all undoubtedly still sleeping in their rooms upstairs at this very moment. It was a quiet morning, the days impossibly long with the sun rising at a little past three in the morning, local time, because at the 60th parallel they were as far north as Anchorage Alaska or Scapa Flow above Scotland back home.

Then, as he leaned in to listen to this strange young Russian man who called himself Mironov, Byrne saw an impossibly bright light fill the room, instinctively raising his arm to shield his eyes.

“What in God’s name—” There came a loud roar in the distance, an awful tearing sound as if the sky itself had been ripped open and something came burning through, a wild, scintillating light in the heavens, brighter than the morning sun. They heard a tremendous explosion, and minutes later a violent wind was blowing outside, sending a hail of debris flying as the dining room windows shattered. Mironov jumped at the sound, covering his head, his face nearly in the remnant of his boiled eggs and porridge. The Uzbek guide was so startled he fell right off his chair with a hard thump on the bare wood floor. There were frightened shouts outside, and cries from the second floor of the building where the German race team must have received a shocking wake up alarm. Byrne heard footfalls on the ceiling above and the sound of men clomping down the main stairs, speaking in loud, fearful voices: “ Was fur ein gerausch? Was ist passiert? What is that sound? What is happening?”

They were all up and rushing outside to join the startled townspeople near the rail yard, gaping at the sky to the northeast and shirking from a distant, deep rumble like thunderous artillery. Just a few seconds after they left, there were other footfalls on the back stairway and a man emerged, equally startled, holding a pistol out in front of him with fearful eyes. He stood there, taking in the dining room, the solitary table set for breakfast, the tea trembling in the half filled cup, the shards of broken glass…

It was Fedorov.

Admiral Volskyremembered how his pulse had raced when he heard that awful sound, flat and dull, a body falling on the hard concrete floor of the Naval Logistics Building. Someone else was there! Then he heard the sound of something being moved, his eyes widening as he tried to imagine the scene. He knew immediately what was happening. It was a body being dragged! There was another rattle of metal, a crisp zipping sound and someone grunting with physical effort. Then he heard a door of a metal bin close, and the clopping footfalls receded, echoing as they faded away.