John Schettler: 9 Days Falling, Volume I

“These are my men,” he said slowly. “This is my train, and we have a schedule to keep. Who are you?”

Fedorov ignored his challenge. “Oh, you have a schedule to keep? Is that so? Well when are you supposed to continue east, Lieutenant?” He named the man’s rank with some disdain in his voice, squaring off to him so his rank and insignia were apparent, particularly the medals on his chest: the Order of the Red Star over his right breast, correctly placed after the Order of the Patriotic War, 1st class.

“As soon as we feed these mongrels, what concern is it of yours?”

“I have just made it my concern, and now you will make it yours. The conditions on this train are despicable. I want these people taken off the cars, and you and your men will clean them, lay in fresh straw, and then you will feed these people, understood?”

“My men? Clean their filth?” The Lieutenant smirked at him. “You must be joking.”

“And you must be deaf,” Fedorov said quickly. “And possibly blind as well.” Then he did something that he had seen in a movie once, though he could not recall the picture. He had been standing, hands on his hips as he confronted the NKVD Lieutenant, and now he just extended his right hand off to one side and loudly snapped his fingers, as if summoning some vicious dog. “Sergeant Troyak!”

The heavy footfalls of the solid Siberian Gunnery Sergeant were quick and hard on the graveled rail beds as Troyak strode up to the scene. “Sir!” he said crisply, more dangerous looking than any dog Fedorov could have called to his side.

“Sergeant, the Lieutenant here must be deaf. He doesn’t seem to know an order when he hears one. What do you think of that?”

“Regrettable, sir.” Troyak fixed the Lieutenant with a hard stare.

“And the Lieutenant here must be blind as well, because he doesn’t seem to know there’s an NKVD Colonel standing in front of him.”

“Very blind, sir.” Troyak took a step forward, very deliberately.

“Indeed. Well what should we do about this, Sergeant?”

“Sir, perhaps the Lieutenant needs a new pair of spectacles.” Troyak turned, silently pulling off his leather gloves as he stared the officer down with a murderous glare. He saw the other man’s hand drift slowly towards the holster on his left hip, and spoke again, his tone so menacing and hostile that it seemed to freeze the other man’s blood. “And if the Lieutenant is stupid enough to try and draw his pistol perhaps he needs his head ripped off and shoved up his ass as well.”

Now Troyak clenched his jaw and took two small steps forward his eyes never loosening their grip on the other man, his physical mass and presence awesomely threatening. The Lieutenant instinctively took a backward step, seeming to quail before the rock-like figure before him. Few men on earth would have been able to stand their ground against the look Troyak had on his face.

Fedorov had to struggle to keep a serious expression on his own face. He repeated his order. “You and your men will hand your weapons to the Sergeant here and find shovels, Lieutenant. Then you will clean both these train cars at once. Lay in fresh straw, get these people fed, and place a barrel of fresh water with cups and a bucket in each car. And be damn quick about it! This train has a schedule to keep, if I recall what you told me just a moment ago.”

The NKVD Lieutenant was livid, but clearly intimidated, his eyes bobbing from Fedorov to Troyak and back again, his hand still on his holster buckle. He stole a glance at his men. Three were still standing by the open boxcar door, bayoneted rifles in hand, their eyes fixed on their Lieutenant as they wondered what they should do. One man was slowly leveling his rifle at Fedorov until another voice was heard. Zykov had been watching closely and keeping a particularly sharp eye on the armed soldiers. Now he was strolling quietly up to the scene, Russian Spetsnaz SMG primed and ready.

“Finally some work for my Bizon-2,” he said naming the weapon as he brandished it at the soldiers. “Nine by eighteen millimeter high impulse Makarov rounds in a helical sixty-four round magazine. Very good in a firefight, particularly at close quarters. Fully automatic at seven hundred rounds per minute when I have to clear a room out.” He stood, looking at the soldiers with a grim smile on his face.

Finally the Lieutenant spit out an order. “Put those rifles down and do as the Colonel says,” he said with obvious agitation, his face reddening with anger and humiliation. Then to Fedorov he said, “This is unheard of! The Chief of Security will want to know about this, I assure you!”

“Is that so? Where is he?” Fedorov looked around. “Is he here? Another man would make the work go faster, yes?”

The Lieutenant threw his cigarette butt to the ground and started to turn and walk away, looking back with annoyance when Troyak put his big hand on his shoulder, held him in place, and then deftly removed his pistol from the side holster. “He must be deaf, sir. He was about to walk away without giving me his weapon as ordered.”

“Regrettable,” said Fedorov.

Zykov was standing a few feet away now, trying to keep himself from laughing, but still watching the soldiers very closely. Then, at a hand gesture from Troyak, he moved quickly to collect the rifles. There were shovels at the back of the coach car and Fedorov told Troyak to supervise the work and make sure it was done correctly.

“But what about this lot?” The NKVD Lieutenant pointed at the occupants of the train.

“Don’t worry about them. I’ll keep an eye on them while you work. Now get busy, Lieutenant. I have a schedule to keep as well—three more trains to inspect today, and yours has just interrupted my meal.”

The Lieutenant and his guards emptied out the first car, and Fedorov saw to it that the soldiers helped the youngest children and infirm. He also told Zykov to get the five soldiers still riding in his own train coach and put them to work on the other car. After seeing what had just happened, and realizing they would be riding on the same train car with this unexpected NKVD Colonel, they made no protest and quickly went to work. When the bespectacled Lieutenant saw this squad he naturally assumed they were the rank and file of Fedorov’s security detachment, and he inwardly cursed his bad luck in running across this Colonel. He had not expected to find another NKVD unit here.

Fedorov watched until he was satisfied the work was being done as ordered. Then he sent the railroad workers off into the marshalling yard and told them to bring any fresh hay they could find at hand, which was often kept in yard bins for just this purpose. It took all of two hours, but when the work had finally finished Fedorov made a point of finding the Lieutenant again.

“What is your name,” he demanded.

“Lieutenant Mikael Surinov.” The man was clearly not happy, but of no mind to confront this Colonel who had come upon the scene so unexpectedly. Yet he burned with inner anger and resentment over what he had been forced to do.

“Well, Lieutenant, you are a disgrace to that uniform. Yes, our job is security here, and yes, it’s a dirty business, but not like this—not with our own people. Let the Nazis do that.”

“But these are detainees of the state!” Surinov protested.

“That may be so, but they are human beings. Who knows what they did to end up stuffed in that filthy train car? Probably nothing. They are most likely there because some ass like you simply decided they should be. Your man almost put a bayonet through a ten year old crying for his Dedushka! Now where is this train going?”

“Khabarovsk. The Camp at Verkhniy.”

“Khabarovsk? Excellent!” Fedorov smiled, with some good lozh in mind. “I just came from there to make these inspections. I’ll be heading back that way soon. See that this train is kept clean and humane for the rest of the trip east. Understand?”