in a circle and melt our tracks. I doubt anyone will bother looking for the bad guys.”
He glanced at Simon, ran past the fuel trailers, and skidded downhill to the airplanes, shaking his head. They always seemed to think alike, especially when they were in trouble. He opened his Super Cub’s door and searched for the funnel, throwing things out of the way. They had to hurry because their lives depended on it. He prayed both airplanes would start without preheating the engines.
He heard the truck stop above, then silence. The filler hose snaked over the bridge’s railing to the river’s frozen surface. He grabbed it, stepped up on the landing gear, and held the end over the funnel he’d mounted in the wing tank. He yelled for Simon to open the master valve, just a little or else they’d flood the funnel. Three more wing tanks and two more belly tanks to go, he thought. Damn, he wished there was a way to speed up the process. Time passed so slowly when you were scared.
Finally, all the tanks were full. He hollered at Simon to wait while he started both airplanes. Better not blow the tanker yet, just in case. He spun each propeller by hand, loosening the oil, pumped the engine primers full of fuel, and hit the start buttons. Each fired and ran smoothly at idle. God bless the Cubs. He yelled that both were ready, climbed into his airplane, and waited. Seconds later, he saw Simon coming down the river bank on the dead run.
“Get out of here. My rag fuse didn’t work and I caught the whole thing on fire. It’s burning like crazy and it’s going to explode any second.”
Jake leaned out and looked up. Black smoke was rolling off the bridge. “Not until I know you’re ready,” he said.
“Damnit, don’t worry about me. Leastwise, I can see where I’m going this time. Get the hell out of here.”
He had to trust their luck would hold and Simon would be, in fact, right behind him. He pushed on full throttle and blasted ahead, stomping one rudder and then the other, dodging the rocks and rough ice in front of him.
He heard an explosion, despite the propeller’s snarl, and felt his airplane pulse in the shock waves. Pulling half flaps, he lifted off, banked, and looked back. A ball of fire almost blinded him, but he’d seen Simon coming right behind him. They had made it . . . and now Lake Baikal lay ahead, only a few hours further.
Blinking to clear his eyes, he keyed the map coordinates of their destination in his GPS, hit enter, and read the bearing and distance. Fly straight and avoid the Lena River, he told himself, though it ran in line with their intended course, because way too many people were scattered along its shorelines. The Lena was Siberia’s principal waterway, serving countless villages on its way to the Laptev Sea, lying below the Arctic Ocean.
He noticed the land was lower around Yakutsk, so he left it and flew along the slopes south of the city, hugging the foothills all the way. After an hour he saw the Buotama River joining the wide Lena a few miles ahead, and descended into its long canyon, which ran right toward Lake Baikal.
His map showed that once they hit Buotama’s headwaters, they could continue hiding in all the high country stretching to Baikal, crossing two main tributaries of the Lena on the way, the Oljokma, and later the Witim. They would cross the Baikal-Amur Mainline as well, the great Russian railway nicknamed the BAM, which had opened Siberia to exploitation in the Soviet’s glory days . . . though now the land looked cold and hungry, without much human activity at all. They would also see several peaks 3,000 meters high beside the BAM on their left, summits that would protect them from the ubiquitous radar. Sit back and relax, he told himself, there were still eight hours to go.
Mountains, frozen rivers, endless evergreen forests—the boundless wilderness slipped by. The high peaks and railroad
He glanced at Simon, ran past the fuel trailers, and skidded downhill to the airplanes, shaking his head. They always seemed to think alike, especially when they were in trouble. He opened his Super Cub’s door and searched for the funnel, throwing things out of the way. They had to hurry because their lives depended on it. He prayed both airplanes would start without preheating the engines.
He heard the truck stop above, then silence. The filler hose snaked over the bridge’s railing to the river’s frozen surface. He grabbed it, stepped up on the landing gear, and held the end over the funnel he’d mounted in the wing tank. He yelled for Simon to open the master valve, just a little or else they’d flood the funnel. Three more wing tanks and two more belly tanks to go, he thought. Damn, he wished there was a way to speed up the process. Time passed so slowly when you were scared.
Finally, all the tanks were full. He hollered at Simon to wait while he started both airplanes. Better not blow the tanker yet, just in case. He spun each propeller by hand, loosening the oil, pumped the engine primers full of fuel, and hit the start buttons. Each fired and ran smoothly at idle. God bless the Cubs. He yelled that both were ready, climbed into his airplane, and waited. Seconds later, he saw Simon coming down the river bank on the dead run.
“Get out of here. My rag fuse didn’t work and I caught the whole thing on fire. It’s burning like crazy and it’s going to explode any second.”
Jake leaned out and looked up. Black smoke was rolling off the bridge. “Not until I know you’re ready,” he said.
“Damnit, don’t worry about me. Leastwise, I can see where I’m going this time. Get the hell out of here.”
He had to trust their luck would hold and Simon would be, in fact, right behind him. He pushed on full throttle and blasted ahead, stomping one rudder and then the other, dodging the rocks and rough ice in front of him.
He heard an explosion, despite the propeller’s snarl, and felt his airplane pulse in the shock waves. Pulling half flaps, he lifted off, banked, and looked back. A ball of fire almost blinded him, but he’d seen Simon coming right behind him. They had made it . . . and now Lake Baikal lay ahead, only a few hours further.
Blinking to clear his eyes, he keyed the map coordinates of their destination in his GPS, hit enter, and read the bearing and distance. Fly straight and avoid the Lena River, he told himself, though it ran in line with their intended course, because way too many people were scattered along its shorelines. The Lena was Siberia’s principal waterway, serving countless villages on its way to the Laptev Sea, lying below the Arctic Ocean.
He noticed the land was lower around Yakutsk, so he left it and flew along the slopes south of the city, hugging the foothills all the way. After an hour he saw the Buotama River joining the wide Lena a few miles ahead, and descended into its long canyon, which ran right toward Lake Baikal.
His map showed that once they hit Buotama’s headwaters, they could continue hiding in all the high country stretching to Baikal, crossing two main tributaries of the Lena on the way, the Oljokma, and later the Witim. They would cross the Baikal-Amur Mainline as well, the great Russian railway nicknamed the BAM, which had opened Siberia to exploitation in the Soviet’s glory days . . . though now the land looked cold and hungry, without much human activity at all. They would also see several peaks 3,000 meters high beside the BAM on their left, summits that would protect them from the ubiquitous radar. Sit back and relax, he told himself, there were still eight hours to go.
Mountains, frozen rivers, endless evergreen forests—the boundless wilderness slipped by. The high peaks and railroad
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