John Schettler - 9 Days Falling, Volume I

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We have no business here. We are just traveling west, and the rail workers on our train spoke highly of your hotel. Your father?” He smiled, pointing to the portrait on the wall behind the front desk.

“My grandfather,” she said quietly. “He built the hotel here before the turn of the century, and when the Commissariat established authority in the province it was converted to a rest and boarding facility for the railroad workers. Better that than an army barracks,” she said. “I have a room with three beds on the second floor, and Uzhin is served in half an hour—good hot stew tonight, with fresh bread.”

“It sounds wonderful,” said Fedorov. They took a table in the dining hall, the aroma from the kitchen already heavy in the room and their hunger well stoked. They had been living off bread, cheese, and some dry salami Troyak found along the way, but they were soon treated to a nice thick stew with potatoes, carrots, celery, onions and even a bit of boiled beef. The gravy was particularly good and the fresh, hot tea was just what they needed.

“Another three or four hours to Krasnoyarsk,” said Fedorov. “But we’ll be there before dawn. I suggest we get some sleep before we leave at midnight.”

“A real bed sounds good,” said Troyak.

Fedorov thought for a moment. “Sergeant, what do you think our chances are?” He left that out there without much explanation, but Troyak could see that he was worried, and knew he was talking about finding Orlov.

“We’ll find him,” said Troyak matter of factly.

“I wish I could feel so assured,” said Fedorov. Russia is a big place, though at least we know where to start in this search.”

“If he’s still wearing his service jacket we can home in on his signal. I can activate the jacket if we get within a five kilometer radius of its position.”

“We can? I did not know this!” Fedorov’s mood lightened considerably.

“The same goes for you,” said Troyak. “So always keep your service jacket on. It’s our means of close communication, and we can track down Orlov from the IFF transceiver in the lining. All the Marines have this.”

“Then if the rescue team arrives they will be able to find us this way too?”

“Correct.” Troyak finished his tea, arms folded on his broad chest. “If I broadcast it extends the homing range to fifty kilometers.”

Fedorov nodded, considerably relieved. Troyak had told him something about this earlier, but with all the stress of his planning he had let it slip his mind. Suddenly their prospects seemed much brighter.

“I’ll have a look around outside,” said Zykov, “and a smoke if I can bum a cigarette off the Sergeant.”

“How come you forget to pack your own, Zykov?” Troyak forced a smile, and reached into his shirt pocket.

“All my pockets are full of ammunition, Sergeant.” Zykov patted his thick shirt pocket where Fedorov saw a clip for his pistol. Somebody has to be responsible for security, eh?”

Zykov left to make his rounds and Troyak took the main stairway up to their room while Fedorov lingered a moment at the table with his tea. When he saw the serving lady enter with an armful of firewood, he immediately got up to assist her with the burden.

“Oh, it is no problem, thank you,” said Ilyana. “Winter is coming, and we have fresh cut firewood this season. Lucky for that. Last year we had to barter for coal from the train station, but wood is so much nicer. The workers were cutting trees for railway ties, and they left us some.”

“I understand,” said Fedorov with the odd thought that he was now speaking to a dead woman, or at the very least a very old babushka if she could live to reach his day in 2021, which he doubted. “Well, Ilanya, the stew was very good, and I think a few hours sleep on a decent bed will be even better. May I take that stairway to find my room?” He gestured to a darkened, narrow stair leading up just around the corner from the hearth.

“Oh… not that one. Take the main stairs. It’s silly but they say bad things about the back stairway—old stories. My grandfather refused to ever use them, and I was never allowed to play anywhere near them as a child. So old habits die hard, I suppose. I always take the main stairs.”

“Very well, Madame, good evening.”

She gave him an odd look when he addressed her so respectfully, but the expression on her face was one of relief and pleasure. This man was clearly unlike any other NKVD officer she had ever encountered, though the two soldiers with him seemed frightening, as all men of war were in her young eyes.

Fedorov made his way out past the front desk to the main stairs and climbed the creaking wood steps to the upper floor. The long hallway was dimly lit by guttering oil lamps and he passed the drafty, dark recess of the back stairway Ilanya had talked about, unlit by any lantern. He thought it would have been much faster to go by that route, but moved on with a shrug. Two doors down he came to the main suite at the end of the long hallway, number 212. Then the hall turned at a right angle and stretched off above the dining area to another set of rooms.

Knowing Troyak as he did, he knocked, quietly whispering his name before he tried the door. He entered to find a simple room, with three beds as promised and a small writing desk and chair. There was a sink on one wall, and a window at the far end of the room overlooked a small city park with a waterless stone fountain. He looked out at the weathered branches silhouetted by a waning gibbous moon rising near full in the gray sky.

“Zykov should be back soon,” said Troyak. “He’s very thorough. He won’t be satisfied until he has peeked into every storage bin and barn within five hundred yards of this place. A good man, Zykov.”

“It’s a pity Bukin didn’t make it through,” said Fedorov. “I don’t know what went wrong, but I wanted to apologize to you, Sergeant. He was one of your men. If anything happened to him…”

“Don’t worry, sir. Bukin knew the risks involved, as we all do.”

“If it’s any consolation I’m hoping he is still safe in Vladivostok. I just don’t think the reactor there had the power to move us all, though I can’t be certain about it.”

“I understand, sir.”

Fedorov sighed. “Well then, let’s get some sleep.” He wasted no time, removing his heavy outer coat and settling on the simple bed, though he followed Troyak’s lead and left his boots on. The mattress was old and lumpy, but the blankets were clean and it was much more comfortable than their train compartment. They would just be here a few hours, but sleep was welcome and came quickly to him, and he was soon lost in the inner world of his dreams.

But this was no dream…No, not this. The sound was so riveting that he immediately sat up, eyes wide, and saw that both Troyak and Zykov were already reaching for their handguns. They had been sleeping for some time before they heard it. Now both men were looking around, even as Fedorov, trying to locate the source of the sound. Zykov went to the window, standing stiffly to one side to peer outside, but the night seemed dark and still. He leaned down and opened the window, forcing it up with a dry squeak. The sound was not coming from the park behind the hotel.

Fedorov was up and at the door, but Troyak waved him aside, tensely alert. The Sergeant took something from his side belt and held it at the door, unmoving, a kind of infrared sensor, or so Fedorov thought. Then in one swift motion Troyak opened the door. Zykov was right behind them.

“Cover the main stairs,” the Sergeant whispered to Zykov. “I’ll take the upper level. You check down stairs. Fedorov, stay here, but can you watch that stairway?” Troyak pointed to the shadowy depression that led to the back stairs.