The Romanov Rescue

Chapter One

Fort IX, Ingolstadt, Bavaria

Guards Captain Daniil Edvardovich Kostyshakov, late of His Imperial Majesty’s Kexholm Guards Regiment, shivered uncontrollably in a slight depression on Fort IX’s forward glacis. It was a fine thing that the depression was slight, because Kostyshakov, himself, was fairly short.

And this is one of those rare occasions when I wish I were shorter still.

The walls of the cells were wet and slimy, with mold growing in the corners. As with many places where large numbers of men are held against their will, the place had an aura of misery and despair about it, greater than the mold and the slime, alone, could account for.

Fort IX was the prison camp for the hardest of cases, the worst of the repeat escapees. As such, since determination and courage know no nationality, it was at the moment, or had been in recent memory, stuffed with Brits and French, Russians and Italians, the odd Belgian from time to time, and whosoever else had found themselves the unwilling guests of the Kaiser and had tried repeatedly to remedy that situation.

Sitting south of the city of Ingolstadt, and just about five hundred meters southwest of the small town of Oberstimm, Fort IX, a polygonal fort, was an old outwork of the defenses of the town, which were also, in practice, the defenses of the Bavarian capital of Munich. It was built of a mix of concrete and granite, with no small amount or wood and iron where called for, the whole overladen with about ten meters of damp earth and surrounded by a massive, water-filled moat to the south, east, and west, and a much narrower one to the north.

It wasn’t the sort of place anyone would want to spend the holidays. That said, if it was hell for a Briton or Frenchman or Russian, in 1917, it had been home to generations of German soldiers in the decades before that.

The cells for the prisoners were tunnel-shaped, with curved roofs, and measuring about twenty-six feet by fifteen. The tunnel shape, an almost perfect half circle, made it impossible for anyone of normal height to stand upright except toward the center where the roof was highest. The normal complement of a room was six officers, and normally it would contain six beds, a table, plus a few chairs. Sometimes numbers within a cell fluctuated. In these cases, the guards were careful to remove the wooden beds, or any chairs excess to need. Failure to do so was a guarantee of the excess furniture being turned into firewood to warm the otherwise damp and miserable cells.

Because Fort IX had not been designed as a prison, but as a defense, the cells were connected, each to the two to either side of it, by narrow passageways. These the guards had long since boarded up. The board barriers had, too, long since been compromised by the prisoners, with enough boards being made detachable to allow a man to squeeze through, and the job being done precisely enough to allow the boards to be replaced again, quickly, with nothing seeming amiss.

The German guard known to the prisoners as “Blue Boy” quickly counted heads in Room Forty-three. He knew all the prisoners’ faces by sight, in the open air, but in the dim light available at night in the prison cell, the best he could do was by size and shape.

“Blue Boy” called off the names of this cell, “Le Long?” “Here.” “La Croix?” “Here.” “De Robierre?” “Here.” “Moretti?” “Here.” “De Gaulle?” “Here.” “Desseaux?” “Here.”

Then “Blue Boy” reported to his chief, whom the prisoners referred to as “Abel,” “All present, Herr Feldwebel.”

The cell was then locked and the two Germans moved on to the next.

The prisoners had had much time to practice for this. It never took less than six seconds for the Germans to get to the next cell, and never longer than eight.

Thus, in order of event:

Second one: Le Long ripped the coats hanging in front of the wooden block to the passageway and moved them to one of the beds.

Seconds two, three and four, De Robiere, with an expertise born of much rehearsal, pulled off the cut-out section of the wooden barrier. Moretti, who trended rather short, used the first four seconds to position himself while pulling on a dark green coat—it was originally in what was called “horizon blue,” but had been dyed—the next two seconds to launch himself through the gap revealed by the removal of the boards, and the last to get in position with the occupants of the other room, Room Forty-four. There were five men in the room, and six beds. Moretti made the sixth. He just stood to as the door opened.

Again “Blue Boy” made his roll call. “Lustianseff?”

“Here,” answered Lustianseff.

“Kotcheskoff?”

“Here,” answered Kotcheskoff.

“Kostyshakov?”

“Here,” answered Moretti.

“All present, Herr Feldwebel.”

Before crawling out into the glacis, Daniil had waited in a basket full of dirty clothes, sitting in one corner of the fort’s eastern half, waiting to be taken to laundry. It was fortunate he was short, there, too, as, in the first place, the basket was already pretty full, and in the second, six or more hours in a not very large basket can give terrible cramps to the legs.

Indeed, it had been both a blessing and a horrible agony to finally emerge from the basket, with agonizing shooting pains overwhelming his legs as feeling returned to them.

From the basket, once Daniil was able to move his legs without wanting to scream, he’d moved to and then crawled up a ramp and then, after waiting for a sentry to pass, into the battlements atop the fort. Daniil had begun his mental count, once the guard passed, one… two… three… four…. Then he crossed and waited in the lee of the battlements for the guard to return and move off again. Five… six… forty-two… seventy-five… ninety…

At least, though, it had been tolerably warm there in the basket, thought Kostyshakov, with another spasm of shivering. I wish the moon would hurry up and go down, though I’d settle for a large bank of thick clouds.

Daniil didn’t have a huge amount in the way of escape equipment and supplies. He mentally inventoried his small stash. I’ve about three days’ worth of food, most of it anywhere from a little past to well past its prime. Along with the food there is a quantity of pepper. Since home has apparently collapsed, well, thank God for the generosity and largesse of the British and French prisoners, who have little enough of their own at the moment. But however little they’ve had, they’ve been generous, even so. He felt for the compass one of the British prisoners had managed to make him. Yes, it’s a crude compass, but crude is better than nothing.

All the prisoners shared any information they had—thin though it was—about the surrounding area; he also had a crude map derived from that limited information, plus a more general one of the way to Switzerland.

His coat had been modified by one of the French officers—he’d had a background in fashion—for rapid transformation into a German officer’s heavy wool coat. To his boots were glued pieces of cloth, to deaden the sound of walking. He likewise had a hat that might not pass close and careful scrutiny, as well as good, lined gloves of his own. He’d taken a double sewn blanket, light-colored, washed out gray on one side, green on the other. The blanket was now slung across his chest and over his shoulder. With two sides, it was for two purposes.

A knife, fork, metal cup, and wire cutters fashioned by hand from a nicked pair of pliers completed his assembly, though he had one other item on his person. This was a billfold, which contained, besides some money, a folded postcard of two tall and elegantly dressed, to say nothing of quite beautiful, young women. He’d have given up his food before giving up the postcard; food just fed the body; the image of one of the young women fed his soul.

Though Daniil might have mourned his scant assets, he had this much going for him, Who travels light, travels fast.

The on-duty sentry passed, none too quietly, walking the rampart surmounting the fort’s earthwork. At the same time clouds, thick and pregnant with snow, closed in over the fort, barring the moon, and dropping everything into something approaching pitch blackness.

If I don’t get moving soon, I won’t have to be caught; the Germans will simply come out in the morning and pry me off the dirt, then use me as an ice supplement to preserve food in their mess.

He had the sentry’s timing down already. Once the man had passed Daniil slithered down the glacis, finally settling into the slight depression he’d found by earlier study, while planning his break.

And now we wait for the guard to make his rounds again.

There was wire at the base of the glacis. With the next passing of the guard, Daniil low crawled to it, snakelike. Then he took the blanket and, putting the dark side out, covered himself with it. The sharpened pliers came out next. He selected a place as near the upright pole as possible, gripped just past that with his glove, put the snippers around the wire and squeezed. It made a noise but, Much quieter than I feared. We didn’t have to cut much wire in the east, but the British and French told me how it was done.

It took several more cuts, two of them much delayed by the return of the sentry, before Daniil had cleared a path through. It must be understood, too, that the barbed wire of the Great War was not much like cattle fencing. It was stouter, the barbs were longer, there were a lot more of them, and hence they were much closer together. More than once Daniil had to bite back a curse as the prongs pierced his skin.

Mentally crossing himself, he pulled the blanket in closer to his body—No time to roll it properly—then finished passing through the wire. The moat was right there, on the other side.

Daniil hesitated at the moat, afraid of what could happen when he crossed it. If they’d let some children skate or play on the ice I’d have more confidence in this… ah, but stop sniveling, you chose this way because the Germans don’t look as carefully here, probably figuring no one is dumb enough to try.

Slowly and carefully, he reversed the blanket. Now the light gray—interestingly enough, ice gray—side was up. Covering himself with this, he eased himself out onto the ice. Since I can’t be sure how strong it is, I must spread my weight out. Helps that I’m not very big, too. And, fortunately, I’ve lost a bit of weight here. The Germans are usually better with prisoners than that, nutrition-wise, too. Things must be hard if they’re feeding us as poorly as they are. Indeed, I think they’ve lost more weight than I have.

The ice was smooth as glass, as he’d expected. Now his mess knife and fork came to the fore. Taking one piece in each hand, he used them to dig ever so slightly into the ice, creating a grip, the sound mostly muffled by the blanket. He was a little surprised that he picked up a degree of speed; the more he travelled the faster he went.

Braking is going to be… uh, oh.

Unable to slow down on the nearly frictionless ice, Daniil crossed his arms overhead and waited for the worst.

The blanket helped again, here, deadening the sound of his arms smashing against the opposite bank, itself frozen as hard as any ice.

Didn’t do much to soften the pain, but I’m not complaining.

And, finally, here I am, at the far side of the moat, and pretty much out of the guard’s area of responsibility.

Speaking of which… Still keeping the gray side up, and putting his knife and fork away, he rolled over onto his back and looked. Yes, there the old Hun is, marching to and fro and with no clue I’m gone.

Daniil moved as the clouds covered the moon, in little fits and starts. Finally, with the moon down at six minutes after five, he felt he could move with a little less care and a lot more speed. He headed to the southwest, skirting the towns of Baar-Ebenhausen, Reichertshofen, and Langenbruech. He lost some time by doffing trousers, stockings, and boots, trying to disguise his scent in the Paar River. He also left a goodly sprinkling of his little store of pepper to upset the inevitable dogs. By the time he’d done all that, he thought he could see the first faint glimmer of morning, off in the east. Spying some haystacks, he ran to one of them. Then, after excavating an area for himself, he fed himself feet first into the hole he’d created, pulling the rest of the hay carefully in after himself.

And now we wait for night, for the search to reach this area and hopefully pass me by. Assuming, of course…

There are some problems that can certainly be foreseen but still not be provided against. One of these, in Daniil’s case, was morning roll call, conducted in the bailey of Fort IX. There’d be no dim light, here and now, to mask Moretti’s impersonation, no shadows to blend and mask faces. There’d be no hasty passageway to allow a prisoner to move from one place to another. Instead, there was:

“De Gaulle?”

“Here,” answered the tall, ungainly, big-nosed French officer.

“De Robiere?”

“Here,” said De Robiere.

“Desseaux?”

“Here,” agreed Desseaux, adding, “Unfortunately.”

“Kotcheskoff?”

“Here,” answered Kotcheskoff.

“Kostyshakov?”

“Here,” answered Moretti, still wearing his assumed coat.

“La Croix?”

“Here.”

“Le Long?”

“Here.”

“Lustianseff?”

“Here,” answered Lustianseff.

“Moretti?”

“Here,” answered Moretti.

“Blue Boy” looked up and glanced quickly at the spot from which he thought he’d heard two answers.

“Kostyshakov?” he repeated.

“Here,” answered Moretti, slouching low so as not be seen and with an attempt at a more convincing Russian accent.

“Moretti?” called “Blue Boy.”

“Here,” answered Moretti.

“Herr Feldwebel!”

German soldiers with bayonetted rifles, most of the soldiers older and some sporting limps and scars, walked around the hayfield stuffing their bayonets into the loosely piled, beehive shaped, haystacks.

“Come out! Come out, Captain Kostyshakov!” shouted the leader of the Germans, the small and rather intelligent noncom whom the prisoners called “Abel.”

“We know you’re somewhere in this area! Why don’t you save us all some trouble and just give yourself up? You’ve made a fine attempt; there no shame in failure when the odds are stacked so badly against you.”

Meanwhile, Kostyshakov thought, You’re bluffing, Hun. If you knew I was here you’d just drag me out.

But the Germans, in their methodical way, kept prodding the haystacks. Perhaps inevitably, one bayonet thrust took Daniil in the backside, digging into flesh about half an inch deep. He managed to stifle his own scream. This wasn’t quite enough.

The searcher, keyed perhaps by a degree of resistance not normally to be expected in a haystack, noticed an area of blood on the end of his bayonet. Drawing the rifle back and examining the point of that bayonet, he was quite sure it hadn’t been there before. “Herr Feldwebel!”

Shit.

Northern Gate, Citadel of Brest-Litovsk, Belarus

He had the face of a butcher, that man, an impression only strengthened by the six-foot, four-inch, and very heavyset, frame above which that face rested. Mind, if he had the face of a butcher it was also the face of a highly astute, well-cultured, and remarkably intelligent butcher. He was fat, to some considerable extent, but the fat didn’t extend to his brain.

Butcher-faced, he may have been. Fat? Yes, that too. but Major General Max Hoffmann was not a butcher of men or, at least, not of his own men. Aged forty-eight now, and having served his country, in peace and in war, for thirty years, Hoffmann stood at the pinnacle of his profession. A mere major general? At the pinnacle of the warrior’s profession?

Even so; Hoffmann was the chief of staff—a position very unlike that of the chief of staff of any other army of that day or any other—of Ober Ost, the German high command in the east. Moreover, not only did the German Army follow the orders and plans he crafted, so did both the Austro-Hungarian and the Bulgarian armies. This was because, under the system prevailing in the German Army at the time, the Chief of Staff was the brains of an army. A man with character could command—and Hoffmann was most fortunate in that his nominal chief, Prince Leopold of Bavaria, could command—but thinking deep, hard, and above all, well was a different matter entirely.

An evening walk was normal enough, when time permitted. Tonight, though, upset and annoyed with the Bolsheviks, Hoffmann felt the urge for a longer walk.

“I think, Brinkmann,” said Hoffmann to the major—also of the general staff—accompanying him on his walk, “that I could not have taken another minute of that Bolshevik peasant eating with his fingers and using his fork as a toothpick… or, come to think of it, another second of that murderous Bitsenko bitch regaling Prince Leopold about her murder of Sakharov.”

The other man, Brinkmann, pulled cold air through his nostrils, contenting himself with, “Indeed, and I don’t mind you inviting me, sir; Admiral Altfater, with whom I was sitting in the anteroom, is a fine gentlemen, but everything he says about the disintegration of the Russian Imperial Army is depressing. It could have been us. If we’re not both careful and lucky, it could still be us.”

“I know, Friedrich; I’ve spoken to Altfater myself. It’s depressing because, as you say, there but for the grace of God, go we. It’s a damned thin line we hold, and that across a long border, between our people and the Reds.”

Stepping through the brick gate of the town’s citadel—which was also the site of the peace negotiations with the Bolsheviks now ruling Russia—Hoffmann led the major into the town or, rather, what remained of it after the Russian Army, in its retreat, burnt it to prevent its use by the German Army. Beside him, Brinkmann’s cane echoed louder than his footsteps.

A more sensitive man might have bemoaned the destruction of the town and the hardship inflicted on its people. Hoffmann, however astute, was not sensitive.

Even so, the town was starting to come back to life a bit, too, as some of its former citizens returned to recreate their old homes and businesses. There hadn’t been a huge improvement yet, even so.

“We’re being foolish, Brinkmann,” said Max, “and in more ways than one. We shouldn’t be making peace with the Bolsheviks; we should be marching on Moscow to restore some kind of civilized government.”

“It wasn’t so long ago,” Brinkmann reminded him, “that you were all in favor of letting the Bolsheviks rule Russia… and ruin it, that Germany needed a break from the Russian threat. What’s changed?”

Hoffmann didn’t answer immediately but continued walking, in silence. Finally, turning right to take up Masharova Prospect, he answered, “I didn’t know everything then that I know now. I didn’t know about the terrorism, the murders, the oppression and persecution of faith. I’m not ashamed; who could have predicted such a thing from a people as faithful to God as the Russians? Primitive in many ways they may be, but faithful they have always been, too.”

They reached a point where, normally, Hoffmann would have turned around. This night, however, he could not. Snowflakes began to fall as the pair continued plodding to the east.

“You served there, didn’t you?” asked Brinkmann. “In Russia? Before the war?”

“Yes, for a while, six months, to learn the language, and then, too, I was for a number of years, five, actually, in the Russian Department of the General Staff.”

“Ah, that would explain your faculty with the language then.”

“That, yes, but… did you hear something?” Hoffman rotated his head in the direction from which the sound—an odd and strange sound—had come.

“No,” the major shook his head; “I was listening to you.”

“There it is again.” The cry was faint, but it sounded liked, “Nie, nie, nie; Adpusci mianie!”

“Now that,” said Brinkmann, “I heard. A woman, I think. Or a girl. She seems upset.”

Keeping his head and eyes fixed on the direction from which the woman’s—or girl’s—cry had come, without another word, Hoffmann undid the retaining strap of the holster on his belt. Without any particular notion of what his chief had in mind, Brinkmann followed suit. It wasn’t necessary for Hoffmann to say, “Follow me.” He led off and Brinkmann followed as surely as a rainbow follows the rainstorm.

The sounds—the cries—ended. Even so, Hoffmann followed the heading he had set for himself. The pair crossed a space distinguished only by charred timbers before coming to a cobblestone road.

“There will be four of them,” Hoffmann whispered. “Well, at least four.”

“Four of what?” asked Brinkmann. To that Hoffmann didn’t give an answer. There was no need to because shortly they came to a waist-high stone wall, against which also lay four rifles, outlined in the quarter moon’s worth of light. They both could see someone holding down a woman’s arms with one hand, and another covering her mouth, another two forcing her legs apart, and a fourth holding something in front of his crotch, dropping to his knees between the spreading legs.

I suppose it’s only logical, thought Brinkmann; there has to be four for efficiency’s sake. This is something I’d just as soon not have known.

Hoffmann, for all his undoubted military skills, was considered to be one of the worst horsemen and—literally and absolutely—the worst fencer in the entire German Army. There was nothing wrong, however, with his hand-eye coordination when a pistol was involved. Besides, at this range I can hardly miss.

The pistol barked.

So much for Herr Schwanz-im-Hand.

The second shot released the woman’s—or girl’s—hands and mouth, allowing her to release an instant ear-splitting shriek. If the shooting upset her at all it was tolerably hard to tell.

Brinkmann, having transferred his cane to his left hand, took aim. His shot then did for the right leg holder, as Hoffmann finished off the left.

Hoffmann then, and much to the horror of both the major and the woman, walked forward and proceeded to put another bullet into the brain of each of the assailants. After that he bent to offer the woman a hand up. The act of lifting also allowed her dress to fall back into place.

Only then did he realize that the “woman” was actually quite a young girl, perhaps fourteen years old or, if she’d been well fed recently, maybe even thirteen.

“Dziakuj,” said the girl, leaning against the mountain in the form of a man. “Dziakuj,” she repeated, throwing her arms around him. Hoffmann let her stand like that for a few minutes, The poor thing is shaking so badly. Don’t think I blame her.

“I recognize at least one of these,” Brinkmann said, using his cane to ease himself down to one knee. He twisted by the chin the bloody, shattered, brain-leaking head of one of the corpses. “I’ve seen him standing guard on one of the Bolshevik diplomat’s huts.”

Hoffmann holstered his pistol, then put hands on both the girl’s shoulders and eased her gently away. He had his first real view of her face. Pretty thing, he thought. Or she’ll grow up pretty, anyway. If she grows up.

“Do you speak Russian?” he asked the girl. “German?”

“Leetle Russian,” she answered. “Leetle. Speak Belarus better.”

“Who were these?”

“Dunno. Me walk home from Papa’s store. Grab me. Next, you see what they do. Try do.”

“Did they speak Russian, at least.”

“Not to me. Not understand they speak, anyway.”

“Okay, girl. What is your name?”

“Maryja,” she answered. “Maryja Pieliski, sir.”

“Are you all right, Maryja?” Hoffmann asked. “Will you be fine going home now?”

“Yes. Think so, sir. You save me before they…”

She doesn’t need to describe this, or think about it, Hoffmann thought. “Okay. Go home then and tell nobody what happened here. Bad for all of us if you do.”

“I go. I say nothing.” Before she turned though, she threw her arms, at least as far as they’d go, once more around Hoffmann’s more than ample waist and repeated, “Thank you. Thank you! Thank you!”

As she scampered off, footsteps clattering on cobblestones, Brinkmann searched through the pockets of the corpse he’d been inspecting. “Here’s the… well… paybook, I suppose, for this one.”

Hoffmann took the proffered booklet and thumbed it open. “It’s written in Russian,” he said, “but it says he’s a Latvian.”

“Makes sense; they’re the most reliable troops the Reds have.”

“Animals,” Hoffmann pronounced. “Just animals. And we’ve turned them into our neighbors for the foreseeable future.”

“It reminds me of when we took Riga, last September,” Hoffmann continued. He led off once again, rescued girl and Bolshevik corpses for the nonce forgotten. “There, the Russian Army had so badly disintegrated into a rabble that none of the people felt safe until we drove them out.”

“Well… Russians, after all,” Brinkmann said.

Hoffmann stopped for a moment, somewhat incredulous. “What, you think Russians are invariably rabble? It is not so, Brinkmann; I assure you it is not so. Whether with Suvarov in Italy, or at Eylau under Bennigsen, at Poltava facing the Swedes or Borodino versus Napoleon, the Russian soldier has always been well disciplined. I saw him fighting the Japanese, around Port Arthur. The Russian soldier is docile, quiet, and unassuming; he is also innately brave. It’s not him, not the Russian soldier; it’s the Bolsheviks, who have ruined him, at least for the nonce.”

“The Cossacks?” Brinkmann countered. In many circles, the Germans not least, the Cossacks had a reputation for pillage and rapine, along with the other usual battlefield atrocities.

“Different role, different culture,” Hoffmann explained.

Brinkmann accepted this without demur, though he retained his private doubts. “They’ll be trying to infect us, too, with their propaganda.”

“They already are,” Hoffmann said. “I refused them their demand to be allowed to send it to our soldiers. They’ve officially accepted my refusal for now… but in the long run? We have to do something about them.”

“What can we do?” asked Brinkmann. “I note that our own newspapers, and the Austrians’, too, are in high dudgeon over your refusal to let the Reds spread their propaganda.”

“Indeed,” said Hoffmann. “One would almost wonder whose side the papers are on, except we’ve known for years they’re on the enemy’s side. On the plus side, the British, French, and American papers are largely on ours. Seems a universal problem.

“As to what we can do… maybe nothing,” Hoffmann admitted. “But I am recalled to see Ludendorff in Berlin in about two weeks’ time. I’m going to try to make them see reason.”

He said the next sentence without conviction, “Someone has to see reason…”

Later that evening, in his quarters, under a dim lamp, Max Hoffmann put his own reason to work, sketching out a possibility with a few branches and arrows, with the overall grand object of getting rid of the Bolsheviks.

But how? But how? We can’t do the work for any number of reasons, and even if we did, we’d get no thanks from it and do no good, even if we succeeded. But maybe…

At one point Hoffmann shouted out to his aide, “Find me the report from Jambol, Bulgaria… no, I don’t remember the date, only that it was marked ‘Naval’ and was a little over a month ago.”

Berlin, Germany

Hoffmann entered Ludendorff’s office fully intending to brief him on a particular idea he had. Faced with the quartermaster general’s cold anger over a certain diplomatic faux pas, however, that ambition quickly died.

“How could you let such a note pass, Hoffmann?” Ludendorff demanded angrily. “You should have stopped it before the Russians were misled and then stomped off in a huff. You speak Russian, for God’s sake; you should have made sure there were no such misunderstandings. Moreover, why didn’t you inform me of its contents?”

With someone of Ludendorff’s sheer force of character, coupled to the sudden and unexpected absence of the warmth and cordiality that had existed between them even since before the war, Hoffmann was almost flabbergasted. He kept his cool enough to explain that he had assumed, and had every right and reason to assume, that Ludendorff had been fully briefed by the Foreign Office.

“Moreover, the problem was not one of translation but of sheer understanding. The Russians had simply blithely assumed that no forcible annexations meant no self-determination, even though self-determination was one of their principles, when they entered into the negotiations. How is one to prevent that? Didn’t you all, after all, discuss this at the meeting on the eighteenth?”

“We did not,” Ludendorff admitted. “As to whether you were justified in assuming so… well… I supposed so. My apologies then. I am under a good deal of strain of late.”

“I understand,” Hoffmann said.

“So lay out for me, then, both the status of the negotiations and of the front. You may consider this a dress rehearsal, because His Majesty wishes you to come to the Bellevue Palace for lunch, where he is certain to want the very same things.”

Bellevue Palace, Berlin

Hoffmann had stepped out into the cold air. He was aware that the deeper problem in Russia, and his possible solution, had not been discussed with Ludendorff’s.

And how could they have been, given how angry he was? Add to that his dominance and inquisitiveness over the dress rehearsal. And then there was the lack of time, given where I have to be and when.

About ready to turn around and return to brief Ludendorff, Hoffmann realized there was a car waiting for him outside the Generalstabs Gebaeude. A one-armed captain of the guards—there were a great many one-armed captains floating around Germany by this point in the war—guided him to it, while the driver held the door for him. Berlin traffic was not notably heavy at any but the worst of times. Now, at this stage of the war, civilian ownership of motor vehicles had declined by over eighty percent. Oh, there were still some private cars, but most had been pressed into military service. This car, a Daimler Mercedes, took Hoffmann swiftly—albeit coldly, given the open top—south through empty streets to the equally bare Zeltenallee, thence westward to deposit him at the Palace.

Kaiser Wilhelm already knew that watching Hoffmann eat his way through an entire lunch was not something for the faint of heart. He consoled himself at the carnage with the thought, Perhaps he eats enough for four, but he thinks enough for four thousand. He’s a bargain.

Meanwhile, between chomps, Hoffmann thought upon his kaiser. I must be careful here. What was it Bismarck said of him, before he was dismissed? Oh, yes, he wants every day to be his birthday. He is unsure of himself and arrogant at the same time. Intelligent, but without much in the way of self-discipline to make use of that intelligence. He craves the new and detests monotony. Well… perhaps I’ll have something new for him, since I couldn’t mention it to Ludendorff.

Hoffmann, still seated at the table and without recourse to notes or maps, gave the kaiser the same information he had given Ludendorff, right up until Wilhelm asked his opinion on what was coming to be called, “The Polish Question.” His concern was where the new border was to be drawn in the east, and the presumptive expense of the new German-sponsored state of Poland, which was to be ripped from the hands of the Russians.

Hoffmann demurred, or tried to, knowing that Ludendorff and Hindenburg, both, had fanciful notions of new divisions and corps of Poles, marching to shore up the western front at the stamp of a teutonic foot. He also knew, Ludendorff has forbidden us telling the kaiser anything without his approval. That was half of what this morning’s dress rehearsal was about.

The kaiser, in any case, was having none of it. “When your supreme war chief demands your opinions on any subject, it is your duty to communicate them to him quite irrespective of their coinciding with the opinions of the General Headquarters or not.”

I see no end of trouble for me from this. Nonetheless, he is right; it is my duty.

“There’s another matter I’d like to discuss, too, but to answer your question, I think we’d be fools, Majesty, to take any more of Poland and of Poles than we absolutely had to. We’ve had substantial numbers of them since your multi-great grand uncle partitioned Poland, one hundred and forty-five years ago. They’ve never really become reconciled to it.

“Yes, fine, we could use two strips, one to shield the Silesian coalfields and another on the Malwa Heights; one hundred thousand Poles, no more. Let the rest be Poles, allies if at all possible, but happy to be themselves and not ersatz, pseudo, and deeply unhappy Germans.”

Hoffmann didn’t know if the kaiser spoke truth when he said, “I’ve been thinking along the same lines, frankly; we don’t need them; we can’t use them; so why should we want them?”

“And what was that other matter?” the kaiser asked.

“It has to do with your cousins, in Russia.”

“What about them?” the kaiser asked. Wilhelm retained a good deal of annoyance toward both his cousin, Nicky, and Nicky’s wife’s beautiful sister, Ella, who had flat refused Wilhelm’s proposal of marriage decades before.

“You know they’re going to be killed, of course, Your Majesty. That’s the logic of revolution. All of them, your cousin, his wife, their beautiful daughters, and their only son.”

“I’ve tried not to think about it,” the kaiser admitted.

“We can’t avoid thinking about it any longer, Your Majesty,” Hoffmann insisted.

“What can we do then?”

Hoffmann smiled, his eyes wandering to the Christmas tree standing in one corner. “Oh, I have a couple of ideas on the subject…”

Interlude

Tatiana: Our Romanov Christmas, 1917

It’s hard to believe that it’s already Christmas. It has been both too short and too long, almost like we’ve gotten lost in time and are still trying to figure out where we are.

The road ahead of us is unclear, like riding through a snowstorm in the sledge on a moonless night. All we can see is a small circle of light from the lamp. It surrounds us, a pool of flickering safety. That’s what they told us back in July. That moving us to Tobolsk was for our own safety—the provisional government protecting us from the Bolsheviks.

But I fear that it is just an illusion, very much like that flickering light and the way it’s being cut through every second of every day by hard, cold, snow. It looks beautiful—benign even—but it can kill you. The snow can be harsh, cutting. Deadly.

Ever since we set foot in this house on the twenty-sixth of August, I have been filled with dread. No matter how much I push it down, it resurfaces.

It’s not just the changes. They put the retainers and servants across the street in the house of a rich merchant, a Mr. Kornilov. I wonder if they asked. I worry that they just showed up at the door one day and said, “We’re the masters of this house now, move out.” Or was Mr. Kornilov honored to host our entourage, to have us as his neighbors? If so, I’d like to thank him. I’d like to reassure him that he’ll be compensated. That we didn’t just take. But I cannot. So I add this embarrassment to the ever-growing list of things I cannot control, that I have no say in, that I bury alive.

It’s not my place, after all. Papa is no longer tsar which means I’m not a grand-duchess. I’m just a girl. It’s something I’ve wished for, and now that I have it, I realize that it’s not the milk and honey I expected it to be. Before, I had status but no responsibility, no power. Now, I feel as if responsibility—for things I’ve not done, did not know of, had no say in—hangs above me like the blade of a guillotine. I still don’t have power and now I don’t even have status. Except maybe that of a pawn, and everyone knows what happens to those.

Our knights remain with us: Monsieur Pierre Gilliard, our French tutor; General Tatichtchev and Prince Dolgorukov, my father’s aides; Drs. Botkin and Derevenko; Countess Hendrikova. And of course, our guard. They are soldiers from the former First and Fourth rifle regiments and have been with us for years. They were with us at Tsarskoe Selo, under the command of a Colonel Kobylinsky, who has been very nice to us.

I spoke to the men of our guard. They were, as they had always been, men with whom we shared a common past. We talked about their families, their villages. They spoke of the battles they had seen during the Great War. They still called my brother “The Heir.” I knew that he held a special place in their hearts because they would find ways to entertain and distract him.

They even welcomed us in the guard house and invited us to play draughts with them.

But this is not Tsarskoe Selo. We can no longer walk out in the open. Instead we must be satisfied with a very small kitchen garden. It is not just the lack of space that is so stifling. It is being under observation. Soldiers from the Second Rifle Regiment look down upon us from their barracks.

We’ve been on display our whole lives, but that was different. That was when we left the much-cherished isolation of our home. If we had any illusions about being captives, they are now all gone, at least for me. I feel fate tightening its grip on us in so many ways.

It started, not with the size of the house or the yard. Those were just physical manifestations of something far more sinister.

It started in September with Commissar Pankratov and his deputy, a narrow, stubborn, and cruel man named Nikolsky. Commissar Pankratov is a man of gentle character. He is well-informed and has made a good impression on my father. He has been kind to us children.

Mr. Nikolsky however, scares me. He delights in tormenting us, in inventing fresh annoyances that he trots out anew each day. He ordered Colonel Kobylinsky to take our photographs and had numbered identity cards made for us. We must carry them, as if we were inmates in some vast prison, as if our guard haven’t been with us for years.

It’s a bit of revenge, you see. And although I didn’t see it at first, it became more obvious as time passed. On November 15th the provisional government was overthrown. It was one of many events that disappointed my father.

He had abdicated to save Russia. But instead, he’d made way for Lenin and his acolytes to destroy the army and corrupt the country. I knew that that decision would haunt him forever not just because he failed to save Russia, but because it had also harmed his people and his country.

As the weeks passed, what little news we’ve gotten has worsened. We told ourselves that we didn’t have the entire picture, so things weren’t as bad as they appeared. We knew that we didn’t have enough information to predict the consequences of what was going on in the world. That puddle of light that surrounded and defined our existence wobbled and shrank and cast false shadows as the storm intensified, as the flakes of snow turned to barbs of ice, as the temperature dropped and the sun hid like it was never going to rise over us again.

And behind that intensifying storm was our kind Commissar Pankratov. One wouldn’t have expected kindness to come from someone who was an acolyte of the Bolsheviks. But he had good intentions: intentions that blinded him to what he was doing.

In my heart I know he did not do it to harm us. I can’t imagine that the thought would have occurred to him. He was an enlightened man. He thought that introducing the soldiers to liberal doctrines would make them good citizens and patriots in a post-imperial Russia. He planted those seeds of thought in their minds with all the right intentions. But a thought-seed’s success depends on the type of soil in which it is planted. And when it was planted in the men of the Second Regiment, the one unit of the guard that were not “our guard” but our guards, that seed bore ill fruit.

Commissar Pankratov’s liberal ideas and good intentions infected these men—like so many others throughout Russia—with Bolshevism. They formed a Soldiers’ Committee whose decisions overrode those of Colonel Kobylinsky. It was at that moment that they ceased to be a military unit and became petty tyrants. We were the unfortunate recipients of their tyrannies. It must’ve been intoxicating to them, to have such power for the first time in their lives. It was then that I learned—through the pain they brought to my mother—that the tyranny of the many is no different than the tyranny of the few. It is the same tyranny that these men supposedly detested.

I couldn’t believe that Colonel Kobylinsky allowed it. It wasn’t until later that I understood why. These kinds of committees, known as soviets, were cropping up all over the country. Peasant soviets. Factory soviets. Village soviets.

It was in this environment that we, nevertheless, worked on making the most of our lives. We had always been, very much, about our family. We continued going to services, rising very early to walk surrounded by soldiers to the dimly lit church across the street. Alone, we prayed.

We continued our lessons, sometimes in the large hall, sometimes in my room or Alexei’s. We girls took turns taking care of Mama, who was often unwell. We organized games and amusements. The cold forced us together in the drawing room, taking turns on the sofa, for we weren’t given enough wood to heat the entire house. The dogs begged for our laps and we were grateful for their warmth and companionship.

When Mama was well she did needlework or played with us. This family peace, this being out of the public eye, something that we had once craved for so earnestly, became bittersweet and soured as our isolation continued.

We spent long months knitting woolen waistcoats for our entourage. I’ll never forget Monsieur Gilliard with his piercing eyes and stiff wing collars, his distinctive twirled moustache and goatee, as I handed him his waistcoat on Christmas Eve. I’ll never forget how my hands trembled with foreboding. I took that foreboding and hid it, not wishing to spoil the evening.

Chapter Two

Jambol, Bulgaria

They always seem so big at first, thought Mueller. I remember, too, when I was terrified at the though of taking off in one of these.

The idle thought made Funktelegraphie-Gast—basically, “Signaler” or “Signalman”—Wilhelm Mueller smile as he stood with the rest of the crew and watched their zeppelin, the L59, emerge from her hangar in all her gorgeous, lumbering majesty. Like the rest of the men around him, Wilhelm wasn’t new to the harrowing, thrilling world of zeppelin aviation, so he knew very well that while L59 might seem incredibly vast as one stood on the ground and watched her fill the sky overhead, quarters inside the military airship gondola would be cramped at best. He and his fellow crewmen were close, but they were about to get a lot closer over the next few days.

Wilhelm’s best friend on the crew, machinist Gustav Proll, jostled Wilhelm from behind, recalling him from his woolgathering.

“She’s out,” Gustav said, nodding his head toward the zeppelin. Wilhelm glanced up again to see that the dirigible had, indeed, slowed to a stop outside her hangar, and the tow team was busy tying down her mooring ropes. “Time to go.”

Wilhelm nodded and clapped Gustav on the shoulder as the two of them started across the wet grass of the launch field. Storms yesterday and the day before had delayed this moment, but the clear cerulean expanse above them meant the wait was finally over. The mission would launch today. Here and there, members of the Bulgarian ground crew called wishes for good fortune in accented German. Wilhelm and the other men accepted these as their due, sometimes nodding in thanks as they climbed up and into the various crew compartments.

The familiar miasma of engine exhaust reached out and wrapped around Wilhelm as he pulled himself up into the forward control compartment. He felt Gustav tap him on the calf in farewell as the machinist remained below and walked aft toward the hellish external compartments where the L59’s monstrous engines smoked and screamed and propelled them through the sky.

Not for the first time, Wilhelm thanked his lucky stars that he’d been trained as a wireless operator, and therefore got to spend most of his time in the forward control compartment. They could still smell the engine fumes, but it was nothing like the noisy, vibrating, hellish environment of the engine compartments.

On the other hand, being up front was no picnic either. Between unexpected turbulence, freezing temperatures, and unpredictable weather at altitude, no one on the crew of a zeppelin had an easy time of it. It was a mark of a man’s toughness—both physical and mental—to be selected for airborne service. They were an elite group, hand-picked for this important mission, and justifiably proud.

In Wilhelm’s mind, and he knew likewise in the minds of his crewmates, flying was worth every hardship. To soar high above land and sea, to look down upon cities and mountains and oceans alike was an experience like no other, and Wilhelm was willing to face a thousand hardships for the opportunity to do it again and again. Nothing compared to flight. Nothing ever would.

Kapitaenleutnant Ludwig Bockholt, L59’s skipper, stood with legs splayed wide as his eyes scanned the horizon out the forward window. The deck of the gondola swayed and bumped, but unless they encountered heavy turbulence, it was nothing compared to the motion of a surface vessel. Still, old habits died hard. Plus, he was the captain of an Imperial Navy airship. It was fitting that he stand like one.

On his left, the ship’s wireless set let out an audible squeal and a crackle loud enough that the young petty officer sitting at the station flinched and ripped the headphones from his ears. Ludwig raised an eyebrow and looked in his direction.

“Everything all right, Mueller?”

“Aye, sir,” Mueller said, having the grace to look a bit shamefaced as he replaced his headphones. “Just a static burst. It’s possible we’ve a storm ahead.”

“Why do you say that?” Ludwig asked, his tone mild. He noticed that his second in command and his chief enlisted man both turned to observe the conversation between their captain and the wireless operator.

“Well, sir, it was that static burst,” Mueller said, squaring his shoulders as he, too, noticed the additional scrutiny. “Procedure is that we bring in the wireless antenna during storms, lest we attract a lightning strike due to the ionization along the metal antenna that ignites the hydrogen in the bag.”

Ludwig nodded. This was common knowledge among airship crews, and one of the reasons they tended to give storms a wide berth when able.

“The thing is, even when we’re well outside of range of a lightning strike, the massive ionization of the storm can still cause smaller static discharges. The antenna will pick these up, and the wireless set will emit a crackle or a squeal, as you just heard.”

“I see,” Ludwig said, then turned to look again out the forward window. They had just crossed the last of brown hills and tall cliffs of the Turkish coastline, and the wine-dark Mediterranean stretched ahead, glinting in the afternoon sun. Up until now, the sky above shone clear and blue, no sign of a cloud in sight.

Yet.

Ludwig raised his binocular glasses and peered at the horizon. Sure enough, a dark, ominous smear hung low over the barely visible Cretan coastline.

“It seems your reasoning is sound, Mr. Mueller,” Ludwig said, lowering the glasses. “There does appear to be some convective activity over Crete. We shall have to circumvent it if we can. We may not have the fuel to go far.”

Ludwig turned and bestowed a small smile upon the young wireless operator. “I appreciate your timely warning, Mueller,” he said. “Well done.”

The younger man smiled for just a moment before his military bearing snapped back into place and he nodded. “Aye, sir,” he said. “Thank you.” As Mueller turned back to his wireless set, Ludwig watched as his chief enlisted man, Engelke, nodded as well, acknowledging the scene.

Not that Ludwig was particularly surprised by Mueller’s intense competence. Indeed, all of his men were excruciatingly good at their jobs, especially considering that the merest bit of the technology they used was cutting edge. Transitioning from the surface navy to the air service was highly competitive, and only the best of the best joined the elite airship crews. He rather expected his men to perform in such an admirable manner.

Still, Ludwig thought as he raised his binoculars once again, it was important to acknowledge excellence, especially in front of his peers. The man would perform all the better for it. And heaven knew they needed nothing less than consistent excellence on this particular mission!

“Operation China Show,” as it was called, was by far the most ambitious undertaking by a military zeppelin crew in all of history. Whenever he thought of the sheer audacity of the plan, Ludwig couldn’t decide whether he should feel more pride or fear about what they were attempting to do. Since he was a military man, and no stranger to action, he usually defaulted to pride… but the fear was always there, too.

They would fly for four days south across the African desert to deliver fifteen tons of badly needed weapons and supplies to General von Lettow-Vorbeck and his Schutztruppe. For nearly three years, the aptly named “Lion of Africa” had kept three hundred thousand British, Belgian, and Portuguese troops occupied down there, where they could do no harm to the German Imperial troops hammering it out on the Western Front. General von Lettow-Vorbeck had never lost a battle, and his mastery of lightning raids and guerrilla tactics made him a constant thorn in the side of the Entente colonial forces.

But none of that could continue without supplies. And with the British Navy prowling the Mediterranean as they did, a surface-based mission would be little more than a suicide run. But while the British claimed the sea, Germany led the world in the air.

And he, Ludwig Bockholt, was in command of this most audacious aerial resupply mission. It all had to be conducted with the utmost secrecy, of course. For while German fighters, at least for now, were far superior to anything owned by Britain or France, an enemy plane could still shoot down the slower zeppelins. Indeed, the differing speeds between lighter-than-air and heavier-than-air craft meant that an escort of fighters was completely impractical for this trip, even if there were places for them to stop and refuel along the route.

Which there weren’t.

But the sky was large, and Ludwig had never been a man short of nerve. So he and his elite, dauntless crew would trust in skill, secrecy, and luck to complete this resupply run, saving the Lion of Africa, and making history in the process.

When he lowered the binoculars again, Ludwig couldn’t hold back a smile.

“Bring the antenna in now, Mueller.”

“Aye, sir,” Wilhelm said, keeping the relief out of his tone. After the heady experience of having the captain praise him in his work, he’d returned to his task of monitoring the wireless communications with renewed vigor. But the static and squealing had only increased over time. While they drew ever closer to the island of Crete, the ship herself started to buck up and down as the air turned more and more turbulent from the storm’s outflow. As the bucking continued, Wilhelm’s knuckles turned white from his death grip on his console. He tried hard not to think about the fact that if the turbulence got bad enough, the ship could actually break apart in midair.

Sometimes, such knowledge wasn’t necessarily helpful.

Wilhelm removed his headset and pulled his heavy leather gloves on over the lighter woolen ones he used while operating the wireless. His tasks required a good deal of manual dexterity, and the larger gloves made him fumble-fingered on the set’s dials. He pulled his flying helmet down tighter over his ears and stepped back onto the narrow catwalk that formed the deck of the gondola. Then he turned sideways and eased his way between the rudder and elevator operators, careful not to jostle either man as they struggled to keep the ship flying through the unpredictable air in a controlled, coordinated manner.

The deck heaved underneath him, and Wilhelm reached out a hand to steady himself on the bulkhead as he stepped carefully out onto the catwalk that connected the two compartments. It was unusual for a zeppelin to have such a feature, but L59 was a bit of a one-off. The catwalk was little more than a horizontal ladder cage that contained the captain’s command communication tubes and the electrical and hydraulic lines required to operate the elevators and rudder.

Wilhelm drew in a deep breath and pulled his scarf up over his nose and face, then unclipped the safety tether they all wore attached to their specially designed belts and fastened it to the rail of the catwalk. He slowly stepped out into the howling, whipping wind and began to pull himself rung over rung back to the aft compartment, the engine compartment. As he drew closer, the noise and stench of L59’s five engines began to hammer into his skull, and he spared a moment of pity for Gustav and his other friends consigned to this hell for the four days of the journey.

“Wilhelm!”

Gustav’s shout barely cut through the din, but Wilhelm recognized his friend’s squat frame, even though he wore the usual layers of uniform, warm coveralls, and protective overcoat. Gustav pushed past his fellow machinists and raised his goggles up on his forehead to grin at Wilhelm as he pulled himself in through the hatch and swung down to his feet.

“What’re you doing back here, then?” he asked, his eyes crinkling up on the corners. “You getting good power for the wireless? Our engines are purring like kittens back here, though the air does feel a little bumpy.”

“We’re circumnavigating a storm over Crete,” Wilhelm said, leaning forward to shout the words into Gustav’s ear as he unclipped his safety tether and returned it to his belt. “I’m to pull in the antenna.”

“Right,” Gustav said. He pulled his goggles back down over his eyes, and turned his body aft, waving for Wilhelm to follow. The gesture was unnecessary, as Wilhelm knew very well where the antenna winch was located, but he followed his friend out of courtesy. This was, after all, the engine compartment, and therefore Gustav’s domain.

He nodded at the other men peering at various dials and indicators as he squeezed past them, careful not to touch any part of the huge engine that rumbled and smoked in the center of the gondola compartment. That engine, and four more like it, provided the thrust required to move and steer the L59 along her course. On the far side of the engine, Wilhelm could see the empty machine gun mounts that normally held their defensive weaponry, just in case any enemy fighters showed up to play. For this mission, however, every kilogram counted, and so they’d left the guns behind and trusted to stealth and secrecy. Wilhelm hoped it would be enough.

“Here, let me get out of your way, so you can get to the winch,” Gustav said, pressing his body to the bulkhead once they’d made their way past the bulk of the engine. Wilhelm nodded and squeezed his friend’s arm, then eased by him in the narrow space and pulled the hand crank out of its stowage cradle.

The deck bucked upward again, and then back down, causing Wilhelm to stumble against the bulkhead. He caught himself with one hand on the stowage cradle and kept his feet splayed wide as he shoved the male end of the crank into the female receptacle on the winch. Then he took a deep breath of the stinking engine compartment air and began cranking.

It didn’t take long for his back and shoulders to burn with the effort. The zeppelin’s wireless antenna wasn’t as long as the antenna used on some of the surface fleet vessels, but it was long enough. Wilhelm fought to keep his breathing steady as his legs and back and arms worked the crank around and around, reeling in the delicate-seeming steel cable even as the rising wind whipped it to and fro.

Finally, just when Wilhelm was fearing he’d have to ask for help, the winch clanked loud enough to be heard over the engine’s thrum, and the safety bolt fell into place on the antenna spool. Wilhelm closed his eyes and breathed a prayer of thanks as the deck shuddered and lurched with more turbulence.

With shaking arms, he detached the crank and returned it to the stowage cradle, then wiped his sweating brow and pulled his own overcoat closer around his throat. Up here, in the chill of altitude, sweat could be deadly. He straightened his aching back and turned around to see that Gustav had gone back to work on the engine itself. He was tuning it to withstand the unpredictable air from the storm, no doubt.

Wilhelm didn’t interrupt him, just squeezed on past as he made his way back forward to the command compartment. With the antenna retracted, they would be unable to receive any signals, but he wasn’t going to be accused of abandoning his watch. Besides, as soon as they had gotten safely around the storm, the captain would order the antenna extended again, and Wilhelm would need to be there to hear it.

“How far off course have we come?” Ludwig asked. He didn’t turn his head, trusting that his navigator was ready with the answer. Sure enough, the man spoke up almost immediately.

“Nearly a hundred miles, Captain,” the navigator said. “Most of it due to the turbulence. But I’ve calculated an intercept course that will make up the distance and still see us overhead the African coast by dawn.”

“Excellent,” Ludwig said. “Give your new course to the helm. Well done, gentlemen,” he went on, allowing himself a small smile. “I believe we’re out of the storm entirely. Very good work by all concerned.”

He could feel his men stand a little straighter at this praise, and he felt a surge of warmth in return. As a young officer, he’d had the occasion to observe two different ship’s captains and their various command styles. The first, Kapitaen Leitzke, had been a staunch traditionalist. He remained consistently aloof and cold with his men, and even, to an extent, with his officers. He’d been a successful commander, in that they’d completed their missions to a satisfactory level (all training missions, at that time, before the war). But there’d been no brilliance on that ship, no fire in any of the men. Leitzke’s addresses had lacked sincerity and passion, and so they’d remained merely “good enough,” and Ludwig had never been satisfied with that.

The other captain he’d served under, Captain Oursler, had carried a reputation as a bit of a wildcard. Unlike Leitzke, Oursler spoke with the crew as a whole on a regular basis. He took watches for himself. He spent an inordinate amount of time with his officers, constantly coaching and developing them, giving them opportunities to learn. He worked extensively with his senior enlisted men as well and entrusted them with much of the responsibility for the discipline of the crew.

The result was like night and day to Ludwig’s first posting. Captain Oursler’s ship consistently outperformed the others in her group. Every man on that ship, Ludwig included, had felt a personal investment and pride in her mission. It had been a heady experience, and a valuable lesson in leadership that Ludwig took with him to the skies. He believed in praising his men in public and with very few exceptions, reprimanding them in private. The result was a tight-knit, highly competent group that functioned like a dream. He knew he couldn’t take credit for all of their excellence—after all, only the best were chosen to be here—but he felt very strongly that his leadership style worked well, enabling them to complete the most difficult of missions.

God willing, that would include this one.

He raised his binocular glasses again and looked out at the glimmering sea spread before him. Africa waited just beyond that horizon. Africa… and destiny.

Wilhelm made a face as he lifted the mug and downed the last of the bitter, strong ersatz coffee in it. It was hot, but he didn’t mind. They’d overflown the coast near dawn, and as the sun burned its way up the sky, the heated gas lifted the Zeppelin higher and higher. Wilhelm felt the beginnings of his usual altitude-headache knotting between his brows, compounding the fatigue that came from over twenty-four hours on duty at this point. Fortunately, the coffee tended to help both conditions. As did the sugar in the chocolate, and the bread and sausage they ate for rations.

He took another bite of his chocolate, a tiny one. He needed the sustenance, but he did not need the shame of losing his stomach on the command deck. It was better to eat slowly and steadily, he’d learned. Especially as the day wore on and they rode the great heated columns of air deeper into the punishing blue sky. Even as he had the thought, the deck fell beneath his feet, and then bumped up hard enough to buckle his knees and send his stomach roiling. Wilhelm gripped the edge of his wireless console and focused on breathing steady, calming breaths.

“Bit of rough air, sir.”

Wilhelm recognized the voice as that of the zeppelin’s elevator operator. He was the chief Obermaschinistenmaat on board, and as such, was the most senior enlisted man.

“Indeed,” the captain said, “and it’s likely to continue for some time as we cross this desert—”

Another violent bout of turbulence rocked them, different from the last. Instead of being tossed up or down, Wilhelm was thrown sideways, towards the nose of the zeppelin. He reached out, hands scrabbling at the edge of his console, the cold metal biting into the wool-wrapped flesh of his hands as he fought to stay upright. Just as suddenly, he felt himself rock back aft, and then the deck bucked up beneath him in the usual fashion of heavy turbulence.

It felt almost as if they’d hit something solid, but they were thousands of feet in the air!

“All stations, report!” The captain’s voice cracked through the control compartment like a whip, and Wilhelm felt, more than heard, it echoing down the communication tube to the aft engine compartments.

“Rudders all clear, sir!”

“Elevator clear, sir!”

Wilhelm shook his head, forced his thoughts to coalesce and stared at his wireless console.

His lifeless wireless console.

He depressed the test tone switch.

Nothing.

“Scheisse,” Wilhelm muttered under his breath. “Captain, the wireless has failed!”

“Message from the engine compartment, sir!” A white-faced man burst out as he looked up from the communications tube. “The forward engine has seized up!”

Wilhelm swore again and hung on grimly as another burst of turbulence rocked them to and fro, rattling their teeth. Without the thrust from that engine, their forward speed would be greatly diminished, leaving them even more vulnerable to the British fighters that they knew were stationed in the Sudan below. But even worse than that…

“Sir,” he found himself saying, before he’d even realized he meant to speak. “The forward engine powers our wireless. Without it, we’re deaf and blind. If I go aft, while I can’t do anything about the engine, I may be able to rig an auxiliary power supply for the wireless from one of the other engines.”

“Go, Mueller,” the captain said, his tone firm, but calm. “And have the machinists report back on what they can do to get the engine started again.”

“Aye, sir,” Wilhelm said, and turned to follow the breathless messenger back aft to the engine compartment.

As soon as they arrived, Wilhelm recognized his own exhaustion and strain reflected in the drawn faces of the machinists frantically working on the seized forward engine. Only one remained apart, and he slumped tiredly behind the empty defensive machine gun mounts and wearily scanned the surrounding sky.

Wilhelm looked around and finally found Gustav crouched near the deck, peering up at the underside of the engine and uttering a low, steady stream of invective.

“Gustav,” Wilhelm said, his voice pitched low. When his friend didn’t respond, Wilhelm reached out and shook his shoulder. “Gustav!”

“Wilhelm!” Gustav said, shaking his head and straightening quickly. “You really are here. I thought it was just another vision.”

“Vision?”

“From the fumes. On long flights, sometimes we get them. What are you doing back here? It’s not a good time.”

“The wireless gets its power from the seized engine,” Wilhelm said. “I’m going to try to see if I can reroute it somehow. And the captain wants a report on how quickly you’ll be able to bring this one back into operation.”

Gustav shook his head, his already grim expression darkening.

“Not going to happen soon,” he said. “The reduction gear housing is cracked. She needs to be completely torn down and rebuilt, and I don’t have the materials or space to do that here.”

Wilhelm swallowed hard at the bitter edge of despair in his friend’s voice. He clapped Gustav on the shoulder.

“No matter,” he said. “We’ve got four more, yeah? But that makes it all the more important that I get some power to the wireless, otherwise, we’re blind and deaf over enemy territory.”

“Right,” Gustav said, straightening. “I might be able to help you there. Your wireless is powered off of this dynamo, here.” He pointed to an incomprehensible lump of metal sprouting wires in several directions, mounted on the external case of the engine housing. “None of the other engines have one quite as large, but there is a smaller, emergency dynamo on the next engine aft.”

“How much smaller?” Wilhelm asked.

“You’re looking at about half power.”

Wilhelm grimaced. “That will power the receiver, at least,” he said. “Though we won’t be able to transmit. Still, better than nothing. Show me this emergency dynamo, my friend. Let’s get our eyes and ears back up.”

Wilhelm and Gustav worked as quickly as they could manage. To Wilhelm, it felt as if his mind surged ahead at a feverish pace, leaving his body behind. Before long, his fingers began to lose dexterity, and he struggled to focus and force his exhausted body to obey and finish the delicate task. He could easily see how Gustav and the others complained of “visions” in this place. Between crushing fatigue, the grinding noise, and the ever present stench, he thought he might just go mad.

“There,” Gustav said, finally. “That ought to do it.”

“God willing,” Wilhelm said. “I’ll head forward and check.”

“Be careful on that catwalk, Wilhelm,” Gustav said. “And use your safety strap. We’ll be watching if you need an assist.”

“I don’t know how you stand it back here, my friend,” Wilhelm said, shaking his aching head.

“It’s what we do,” Gustav gave him a grim smile and patted him on the shoulder. “Now go. And call back through the tube if it’s not working. You’re too tired and addled to make two trips down the catwalk now.”

“The ‘tube,’ as you call it, isn’t mine to use, Gustav. You know that. I’ll do as the captain orders.” Wilhelm rolled his shoulders and settled his leather belt on his hips, bracing himself for the harrowing crawl back to the forward compartment.

“Well said, Wilhelm,” Gustav said. “Fair enough.” He clapped Wilhelm on the shoulder once more and accompanied him back as far as the useless hulk of the seized engine, then lifted his hand to wave farewell as Wilhelm squeezed once more through the bodies of the other machinists hard at work trying to find a solution that just wasn’t there.

Once more, Wilhelm hooked his safety tether onto the catwalk and ventured out into the naked sky. Though the whipping air took his breath away, it did help ease the fume-caused headache that had been pounding through his skull. He tried to breathe slowly through the fabric swathing his mouth and nose, as he pulled himself on burning, shaky muscles hand-over-hand to the safety of the forward compartment.

Hands gripped him by the shoulders and pulled him forward. Warmth wrapped around him as the sudden cessation of the punishing wind cut off. Other hands peeled his frozen scarf from his face.

“Wilhelm?”

“Sir,” Wilhelm gasped. “My… apologies. I think… the wireless…”

The navigator who’d caught and assisted him helped him further, pulling him up to stand. Wilhelm found that he couldn’t uncurl his frozen fingers enough to unclip his safety tether, so the officer did it for him, and then handed him a mug.

“Careful,” the navigator cautioned. “It’s barely warm, but you could still scald yourself. What about the wireless?”

Wilhelm took a sip of the coffee, which felt deliciously warm, and drew in a deep breath.

“Yes, sir. I think I was able to restore power to the receiver, at least. The machinists say that the forward engine is a complete loss, however. There’s no way to fix her in the air.”

“Damn,” the navigator said. “I’ll tell the captain. You go check on your wireless set.”

“Yes, sir,” Wilhelm said again. He nodded respectfully and made his way carefully back to his own crew station, cradling the mug of coffee and fervently wishing that he never again had to make that trip during this mission.

Ludwig clapped his exhausted navigator on the shoulder.

“I have the ship, Heinrich,” he said softly. “Why don’t you step around to the officers’ berth and get some rest.”

“Aye, sir,” Leutnant zur See Maas said, fatigue and gratitude threading through his tone. It was near midnight, and the command deck was quiet. Most of the men had also been dismissed back to their crowded common berth compartment to get what rest they could. As the captain, Ludwig had the luxury of a tiny closet all to himself, and he’d taken himself there shortly after sundown for his own rest. Experience had taught him that he couldn’t care for his crew if he didn’t also take care of himself. So once dusk had found them high overhead of the Nile and following its course south, he’d left the ship in the capable hands of his officer for a few hours.

“Looks like it’s you and me, Wilhelm,” Ludwig said to the young wireless operator sitting at his console.

“Aye, sir,” the young man said, coming smartly to his feet. Ludwig waved him back down to a seat. There wasn’t a need to be quite so formal during the middle watch, not with nothing going on. And though the man looked worlds better than he had after his harrowing heroics that afternoon, his face still shone pinched and pale in the dimly lit compartment.

“Did you get some rest, Wilhelm?” Ludwig asked. “Stay seated, for God’s sake.”

“Aye, sir,” Wilhelm said. “I did. The Obermaschinistenmaat ordered me into the berths and told me not to come out for a solid four hours. He kept a careful log of any transmissions, sir, I checked.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Ludwig said, hiding a smile. The young man looked both terrified and gratified to be having this late night conversation. Funny as it might seem to him, he could understand, given the differences in their respective ranks and stations. He nodded at the man, then lifted his binoculars to look out the front windows, thus releasing Wilhelm from any further discussion.

It was a beautiful, clear night. Stars studded the sky like a spray of chipped ice on midnight blue satin. The moon, just barely past half, rode high, spilling stolen light on the desert terrain below. Up ahead, the Nile shone, a close, silver ribbon twisting through the hills as it pointed their way south.

It was closer than it ought to be, actually.

Ludwig lowered the binoculars and frowned, then turned to try to focus on the dimly lit altimeter. He squinted his eyes, bending toward the instrument panel. He was barely able to make out the numbers painted on the dial.

Two-thousand, nine hundred feet?

That couldn’t be right. He reached out and tapped the gauge. Sometimes, the needles could get stuck…

“Captain, a message.”

Ludwig straightened and turned back to Wilhelm at the wireless console. The young man held out a pair of headphones, and he wasted no time in putting them on.

Ludwig could read Morse as well as any signaler. He translated in his own mind as the message repeated. “… Break off operation. Return. Enemy has seized greater part of Makonde Highlands, already holds Kitangari. Portuguese are attacking remainder of Protectorate Forces from south.”

“Wilhelm,” Ludwig said quietly, his voice calm, even as the bottom dropped out of his stomach. “This is genuine?”

“I authenticated the code, sir,” Wilhelm said, sounding as sick as Ludwig felt. “It’s genuine.”

“Very well,” Ludwig said. He took a deep breath and stepped over to the message tube. He didn’t think Wilhelm or any of the other men on the night watch could see, but perhaps he could be forgiven as his hand trembled just a little when he pulled the speaking cone to his face.

“Crew, this is the Captain,” he said, hearing his own voice echo into the tube. “We have been recalled by the High Command. Prepare to come about.”

A chorus of disbelief and outrage rose from both the officers’ compartment and the crew berths that lay on the other side of the bulkhead from the command cabin. Heinrich, his navigator and second-in-command, charged up onto the command deck with his coat undone and his hair all askew from sleep.

“Sir, you can’t be serious!” Heinrich said, and the men piling in after him raised their voices in agreement. “We’ve come so far! Been through so much! This message can’t be genuine! Von Lettow-Vorbeck is lost without these supplies!”

“Leutnant Maas, you forget yourself,” Ludwig said coldly to Heinrich.

“Sir, you know I’d never disrespect you, but consider! A recall now? This makes no sense! It must be the British—”

“Leutnant!” Ludwig thundered, just as the zeppelin lurched and tilted. He’d ordered her elevator set to fly with their nose up at four degrees above the horizon throughout the night. A tell-tale shudder reverberated through the floor, and Ludwig spun, throwing himself toward the instrument panel.

“Nose down!” he yelled, as his eyes locked onto the altimeter. The needle began to spin, slowly at first, and then accelerating as they fell through the skies. “Nose down, full power from all remaining engines! We’ve stalled in the cold night air!”

The deep thrumming that always existed in the background picked up in pitch as someone—maybe even the unfortunate Heinrich—picked up the command tube and relayed his order to the engine room. The captain heard men grunting and swearing behind him as they fought with the elevator controls to try to bring the behemoth’s nose down in order to get her flying again.

Slowly, their pitch attitude changed.

Too slowly. The altimeter needle continued to spin. Two-thousand feet. One thousand nine hundred ninety feet…

“We’re too heavy! Engelke, get some of the men and head back to the cargo compartment. Jettison the heaviest cargo—ammunition, the machine guns—and about half of our own ballast. We can pick up more if we need it once we’re once again in friendly skies.”

“Captain, the supplies—”

Ludwig whirled around and stabbed a finger at Heinrich Maas, his eyes angry and hot.

“Enough!” he spat. “Engelke, take Leutnant Maas with you and if he does not help jettison the cargo as ordered, then jettison him as well! This is not a game, gentlemen! We are a warship at war and we have our orders!”

Shocked silence reverberated through the compartment, broken only by the engine’s scream. Ludwig looked into his navigator’s wide eyes and let the man see his steely determination. Maas looked away, and Ludwig glanced at the airship’s senior noncom.

“Aye, sir,” his senior enlisted man said, swallowing hard and nodding.

“Go,” Ludwig said, keeping his tone low and hard as iron. In the back of his mind, he began to consider how he’d paint this incident in such a way as to save his young, momentarily foolish, officer. Perhaps he could blame it on fumes, or lack of sleep, or a legitimate suspicion of enemy action. He’d think of something. Maas was a good sort, and he’d never caused problems before.

The men scurried away to do his bidding and Ludwig turned back around to look out at the desert floor that stretched impossibly far in the moonlit night.

They saved her, but barely. Wilhelm didn’t know how close they’d come to crashing in that frigid night, but he’d seen the altimeter reach as low as one-thousand five hundred feet, and suspected they’d gotten even closer than that. But the captain’s order to jettison cargo and ballast had stabilized the ship and gotten her flying again.

He wished he felt relieved.

The truth was, the journey thus far had been hellish. Easily the most difficult mission of his life, and he knew he was not alone in that. Reports from the engine compartment spoke of increasing hallucinations and men passing out from the severe pains in their heads. It only got worse once they’d come about, as well. Men could push through a lot of pain in pursuit of glory. It was much harder once defeat was assured.

By the time the sun rose to warm the air and expand the gasses in the bag again, they had established a course back to the north, across the enemy territory through which they’d just come. Tension ran high throughout the crew, sure that the damned British fighters would be on them at any moment.

The day wore on and on. Wilhelm refused to leave his station again, straining his ears for any transmission, any break in static, anything that might give them warning as to the presence of enemy fighters.

But nothing came. The static stayed steady, and through the grace of God alone, nightfall saw them crossing the Egyptian coast and soaring out over the Mediterranean once again.

Ludwig felt like weeping.

He could do no such thing, of course. Not in front of his men, ever, but certainly not now, at the end of a grueling mission that had ended in ignominious failure. It didn’t help that he ached with a fatigue that burned through his muscles and pulled at the edges of his mind, making it nearly impossible to focus. Still, his men no doubt felt worse than he, and so he summoned every bit of will he had to keep his spine straight, his chin lifted.

Remember, he whispered to himself. Remember who you are.

Ahead, the wide landing meadow at Jambol beckoned just below the horizon. He could imagine the scramble of the ground crews as they watched his ship’s unscheduled approach. Though they flew at nearly one hundred kilometers an hour, it seemed impossibly far away; and their pace seemed an impossibly slow crawl. Normally, at the end of a mission, the men would be all smiles and jokes at this point, with hearts light and merry at the prospect of a few weeks at home.

Not so today.

He listened as his noncoms and officers—including poor Heinrich, who had not said another word out of line since Ludwig had threatened his life—performed their landing routines. He gave the appropriate commands at the appropriate times, and L59, battered and bruised from her marathon journey, finally settled softly to the ground once more.

Ludwig lowered his head, closed his eyes, and lifted his thoughts in a very heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving, for his life, for the lives of his men, and for the safety of this truly magnificent ship.

Remorse rippled through him. She deserved better.

They all did.

“Captain?”

Ludwig looked up to see Heinrich, his face pale, his hands shaking as he held out the ship’s official diary. Ludwig took the book, which was open and ready for him to record their landing entry and mission summary data.

“Captain, I am so sorry—”

Ludwig lifted a hand. Shook his head.

“You forgot your place for a moment, Heinrich. That is all. It will not happen again,” Ludwig said, his voice hard, but not unkind.

“N-no, sir,” Heinrich said. “It will not.”

Ludwig nodded. “The summary data, then, if you please, Leutnant?”

Maas blinked rapidly, inhaling through his nose as if gathering his composure, and then nodded crisply. “Yes, sir. On her latest mission, codenamed China Show, Imperial Navy Zeppelin L59 flew a total of 6,800 kilometers in 95 hours. Due to a recall from the high command, her mission was aborted, and this flight was conducted without pause or refuel, making it the longest flight by a military aircraft in history.”

Ludwig froze, looked up from his record of this summary.

“You’re sure, Heinrich?” he asked.

Heinrich gave him a tremulous smile. “I am, sir. They taught us that in university. The pre-war record is significantly shorter, and none of our other missions have been so ambitious.”

“And the enemy doesn’t fly long-range zeppelins,” Ludwig finished, speaking half to himself.

“No, sir, they do not.”

A slow smile spread across Ludwig’s face as he bent to finish his sentence. He signed off the log, signaling the end of the mission, and closed it with a flourish, then shared his smile with Heinrich.

“Thank you, Leutnant,” he said, formally, “for that data. And for making our mission less of a failure.”

“Sir?” Heinrich said, confusion furrowing his brow.

“We did our job, but we were recalled through no fault of our own. The men are demoralized by that, as you, yourself, are well aware. But now, with this information… well. You’ve given us something to celebrate! Come with me, my boy. You can help me tell the crew. If we can do this, we can do anything!”

Interlude

Tatiana: Many summers

It was not our fault that the guards turned on us.

Today we celebrated the birth of our Lord. We were grateful to be together under the small dome of Tobolsk’s church, kneeling before the altar. Most of the soldiers of the Second remained in the narthex but one, then a second, followed us cautiously into the nave. I could feel the weight of their gazes on my back as we took our places, Mama and Papa and Alexei in front, we girls behind.

I couldn’t shake the weight of their sight from my shoulders. It made me shudder, not from the cold that had followed us in, but from the scowls on their faces, the way they looked at the saints painted on the walls.

Looking away, I sought the friendlier faces of the choir standing at our left and our right. I recognized among them some of the people that had crossed themselves as we had passed them in the street.

Father Vasiliev entered through the Beautiful Gate and took his place, his voice rising above us as he led the service, but the words were lost to me. I wanted, more than anything, to lose myself in the imagery of the icons, in the vibrant colors of their robes, the gilded halos, the looks on the faces of the saints painted on the wall before us. I wanted the comfort that the images of our Lord and His blessed mother could bring. Unlike the sternness of John the Baptist, and the Archangels Michael and Gabriel, she had a gentle look on her face.

I don’t know how long I stared at her and only her, but my vision swam. I blinked away the tears and an icon I had never seen before appeared. Seven figures, a mother and father, with a son between them, and two daughters on either side. They were painted like the saints, in rich robes, the children’s hands folded together as if in prayer, the mother and father holding admonishing palms outward in front of them. I blinked again and again, hoping the image would go away, but it stayed with me, becoming clearer with every heartbeat.

Mama, Papa, and Alexei. We girls. All of us as we are now, not grown, not old. Martyrs.

I shook my head and looked down at the floor. I didn’t dare look back up as my skin shivered around me, crawling underneath my clothes. I thought then that I would crumple and fall and I think I would have had Father Vasiliev not raised his voice.

“A prosperous and peaceful life,” he was saying, “health and salvation and good haste in all things, Lord grant your servant, the Sovereign Emperor Nikolai Aleksandrovich, and save him for many and good summers!”

The choir sang in response. “Many, many, many summers! Many, many, many summers!”

Would we see another summer?

“God save him!” they continued.

Yes, God, save my father.

“Grant him, Lord! Many, many, many summers!”

With each word goosebumps rose on the back of my neck, my arms. I was shaking and didn’t know why.

The fall of heavy boots thundered by, cutting through the voices, carrying two of the soviet soldiers toward the deacon. He stepped back, into the icon-covered wall, his eyes wide.

“Take it back,” one of the soldiers said.

Papa pulled me off the kneeler and pushed me towards Mama and my sisters. He placed himself between his family and the other soldiers who had come bursting in. The choir had backed away as well, casting aside their books, taking refuge through the gates.

“No. I can’t,” Father Vasiliev said, shaking his head. “I won’t.” He cast his gaze towards Papa as if seeking direction and then deciding a moment later that it didn’t matter. He refused to revoke the prayer, even when they threatened to kill him.

After their treatment of Colonel Kobylinsky I thought they could commit no greater act of insolence. I was wrong. I understood the concept of mutiny. But this. This was something else. It wasn’t just that they were drunk on power over men. They were drunk on power over God.

That night, still shaking with the fresh memory of it, I prayed. I prayed for Russia. I prayed for us. I prayed for the deacon. And I prayed for the men who believed so fervently that the deacon’s words had so much power that they must be retracted and at the same time believed they could command God. I prayed for their souls and a return to their sanity. I refused to believe that it was anything but that.

So naïve was I.

Chapter Three

En Route to Fort IX, Ingolstadt, Bavaria

Max had tried, he really had, to get word to Ludendorff before the latter walked into an ambush at the Privy Council meeting that had shortly followed his own lunch with the kaiser. He’d failed, and now both Ludendorff and Hindenburg were threatening to resign if the kaiser didn’t knuckle under and back off of his doubts on the Polish Question. Worse, they were demanding that Wilhelm relieve Max as Chief of Staff at Ober Ost, which would be potentially devastating to German fortunes, in the east.

Great men can also be very small sometimes, Hoffmann thought, as he headed south to Ingolstadt. On the other hand, clever ones, like myself, can be very naïve.

I wonder why I haven’t been stopped from beginning with my little scheme. I suppose… no, I am almost certain… the kaiser is simply keeping quiet so as not to provoke another row in Berlin. That said, it’s at least possible he’s trying to maintain a small measure of self-respect over the true ruler of Germany having become the quartermaster general, whom the kaiser dare not overrule.

Oh, well, on the plus side he’s at least stood up for me; here I remain at Ober Ost. I am not an especially humble man, and I know I am not, but it’s not arrogance to know that here I am irreplaceable.

Max walked through the northern gate of the fort, over which proclaimed the year, “1870.”

Odd timing, Hoffmann thought; they built a huge and hugely expensive set of forts precisely when Germany unified to the point where invading it had become very difficult. Oh, well; Bavarians.

No guard searched him, of course.

The commandant of the fort, Hoffmann decided, was not so much incompetent as excitable and lacking in self-discipline. He was also rather fawning, which made him both distasteful and cooperative, extremely so in both cases.

“We don’t have as many Russians as we used to, Herr General,” the commandant explained. “We used to be mostly Russian, but they’ve been getting moved out for a while now.”

“Moved to where?” Shit.

“Different camps, sir,” the commandant answered. “No particular pattern, but most went to Zittau. Where they may have been sent from there, I have no clue of.”

“Well, what do you have here?” Hoffmann demanded.

“Two partial cells of Russians, mixed in with British and French, only,” the commandant replied, “six men, of whom one is on a charge, and in solitary confinement for two months, for attempted escape.”

“Indeed? How far did he get?”

“Farther than most,” the commandant admitted, then beamed, “but we still caught him within ten kilometers of the fort. He—Captain Kostyshakov—is the senior Russian prisoner at the moment.”

Kostyshakov attempted to rise to attention when Hoffmann and the commandant entered the cell where he was recovering from the bayonet wound to his posterior. It should have been healed, but infection had set in, an infection his body was only slowly coming to grips with, with the aid of the German medical staff. He couldn’t quite make it though he didn’t give up on the attempt.

Hoffmann noticed a particular postcard on a small table facing the bed. Interesting, he thought, the subjects of that photo. Under the postcard was a series of journals, most of which appeared to be German military. Also interesting, and commendably optimistic, that’s he’s keeping up with modern doctrine.

“You can leave now,” Hoffmann told the commandant. “My business with the Russian doesn’t concern you.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. If you need anything…”

“I’m sure we shall be fine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and give me the Captain’s file before you leave.”

Once the door to the cell had shut, Hoffmann made a patting motion, urging Kostyshakov to lie back down on his bed and relax. This was something less than ideal, as his new wound insisted he lie on his stomach. Stubborn to a fault, as his file said he was, Kostyshakov lay on his back, infection, stitches, pus, and blood be damned.

Hoffmann took a seat that groaned under his weight. Satisfied it would hold him, at least for a while, he opened up the file. He began to read it through, quickly but carefully. Occasionally, the German would tsk or hmmm or chuckle. Once he muttered, “Clever.” At several points, he read aloud, for effect.

“…mmm… A less than model prisoner… numerous escape attempts. Tsk… scorning our lavish welcome. Captured, July fifteenth, 1916, near the village of Trysten… Battle of the Stokhid… acting commander of a Guards battalion as a senior captain… hmmm…. Guards captain and lieutenant colonel are the same… both K7, if I recall correctly… before that… company command, Second Company, Kexholm Guards regiment… machine gun detachment commander before that… wounded at Tannenburg… joined Guards 1910… 1906 graduate of Pavlov Military Academy… First Cadet Corps before that… Order of Saint Anne, 4th Class… Stalislaw, Third Class… Saint Vladimir… Saint George…”

Two or three times—Kostyshakov lost count—the German stopped reading and looked at the curved ceiling contemplatively. Finally, reaching the end of the file, he closed it and turned his attention back to the Russian.

That study went on a long, intense, and uncomfortable time, before Kostyshakov lost his patience and asked, “Is there something I can do for you, General? And how do you—how does that file—know these things?”

Good, thought Hoffmann, he is patient but not too patient. Also not dull-witted.

“Ah, my apologies, Captain,” said the German in flawless Russian. “I’m Major General Max Hoffmann. You have, perhaps, heard of me.”

“Chief of Staff, Ober Ost?” Kostyshakov asked, a little incredulously. He knew the German staff system reasonably well.

“That would be me, yes. As to your file; I suspect it was captured in the same battle you were in, or shortly thereafter, and made part of your file for our purposes. It’s in Russian, which I doubt anyone—well, anyone German—before me has thought to read. If they had, you would have been in this place a lot sooner, long before so many escape attempts.”

“Well now I really am intrigued,” Kostyshakov said. “This is a signal honor, sir. But, more to the point, to what do I owe this signal honor?”

Again, Hoffmann reverted to quiet study, not answering the question.

For his part, sensing a sort of mental game in progress, Daniil simply folded his arms and proceeded to stare back.

And very quick on the uptake, too. I think I can make use of this young man.

“Tell me, Captain,” Hoffmann said, “you have shown yourself resourceful at breaking out of places; six distinct escapes that got you outside the walls of whatever camp you were in, if I didn’t lose count.”

“Six? I think that’s probably right, sir.”

“So you can break out… how do you think you would be at breaking in?”

Kostyshakov unfolded his arms in a painful attempt to sit more upright. “Sir, I…”

“I have a proposition for you, young man. But first, tell me what you know of circumstances in Russia.”

“Not that much, sir. I know the tsar abdicated, and that Kerensky has formed a government.”

Something about the tone in Daniil’s voice when he said, “Kerensky,” prompted Hoffmann to ask if he knew him.

“We’ve never met, sir, no, but I know of him. I’ve read some of his work, notably his exposure and treatment of the Lena Massacre was important. But… although Russia needs to modernize and even liberalize, I don’t think Kerensky is the man to do it.”

“Why not?”

“His heart’s in the right place, but he’s far too left wing, and even too innocent, for the job.”

“I see,” said Hoffmann. “Well, you will be pleased to note that Kerensky is no longer in charge of the Provisional Government. His place has been taken by Vladimir Ilyich Lenin…”

“The Bolshevik?” Daniil asked, distress in his voice. “The Bolsheviks are in charge of Russia?” He let his compact torso fall back upon his medical cot, then covered his face in the crook of one arm. “I should have known, except that here part of my sentence was to be deprived of Red Cross parcels and newspapers.”

“It gets worse,” Hoffmann said.

“How can it be worse? How can it possibly be worse than that godless Bolshevik, Lenin, ruling Russia?”

“Russia’s dropped out of the war.”

“Still not as bad as Tsar Lenin,” Daniil said. “For he’ll be the tsar, even if he scorns the title.”

Hoffmann continued, trying to shake the Russian, “The imperial army has mostly disintegrated.”

“Of course, it did,” Kostyshakov agreed. “How could it not with the Bolsheviks at the helm?”

“Germany is stripping away, which is to say guaranteeing the independence of, Finland, Poland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania. That’s about one third of the Empire’s population, just under ninety percent of its coal, perhaps half of Russia’s industrial base, and about a quarter of the rail system.

“It didn’t have to be,” Hoffmann continued, not necessarily with perfect honesty. “With the tsar or even with Kerensky we could have made a far more generous peace. But with the Bolsheviks in charge? Germany has to secure itself against them.”

“No doubt,” Daniil replied. And I even do understand it, at least to some degree.

“So how do you feel about your royal family,” Hoffmann asked, “or, rather, your former royal family?”

“While I breathe,” Daniil replied, “and they do, they remain my royal family and…”

“Yes?” Max prodded.

“Nothing, sir. Nothing important.”

Hoffmann stood, again causing the chair to groan in relief, and took the two steps to the night table next to Kostyshakov’s bed. He picked up the postcard, saying, “Beautiful girls. German girls, really, for the most part, which is a good deal of why I’m here to see you. I’ve never met either one, though I saw them from a distance once when they were little above babies.”

Kostyshakov’s eyes took on a sort of dreamy look, as if they were piercing the veil of time to look back. “I was wounded again,” he said, distantly, “in nineteen fifteen. It was a fairly heavy dose of shrapnel. It looked touch and go for a while. I was evacuated to a hospital at Tsarskoe Selo to recover. My nurse was… the one on the right, Tatiana Romanova. Wonderful, wonderful girl. The other, Olga, is sweet but not strong. Tatiana is strong.

“Beyond my station, of course; even leaving aside that I am a probably a little too old for her; my family wasn’t ennobled until my grandfather was awarded the Order of Saint George, Fourth Class, for fighting on the frontier.”

“Yes, and I’m not even a ‘von,’” Max said. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, you feel you do have obligations both to the tsar and the royal family, professionally and morally, and to this girl, personally?”

“Yes. And as for the girl, still, a man can dream.”

“That may prove unfortunate and your dream a nightmare,” Hoffmann said. “The Bolsheviks cannot possibly let the tsar and his family live. At some point in time, the decision will be made—it is part of the inescapable logic of revolution—that they must die before they can become so much as figureheads for the enemies of the revolution.”

“I don’t believe it,” Kostyshakov replied. “Even the Bolsheviks—”

“Are you at all familiar with the French Revolution?” Hoffmann interrupted. “Does the name Marie Antoinette not ring a bell? The Princess de Lamballe? How many hundreds, how many thousands, of others?

“Don’t delude yourself, Captain Kostyshakov; the tsar and his family are as good as dead.”

Daniil grew very silent then, staying that way for what seemed a long time. When he finally spoke, it was to say, “You didn’t come here to tell me all this just to torture me, General Hoffmann. What is it that you want?”

“I mentioned—well, suggested, at least—a proposition, I think,” Hoffmann said. “Put simply, it is this: I want you to select a few dozen trustworthy officers and noncoms, then that… committee to select several hundred others, of all ranks. And then the lot of you are going to go and save your royal family.”

Kostyshakov looked stunned. He barely managed to croak out, “We’re going to—”

“It has to be you, you see,” Max interrupted, “you Russians that do it. Any German attempt to save them, barring some support not arising to direct combat, would simply contaminate them and take away what little legitimacy remains to the Romanovs.”

“But how do we…?”

“I’m not sure. I have a rudimentary sketch of a plan, no more than that. The short version is that you will select your force. Meanwhile, a small team of yours, quartermaster types, will be given free reign over captured stocks from your own army and the western allies, and perhaps some of Germany’s arms, if they’re ubiquitous enough or unknown enough. Another small team—with carrier pigeons, I think, if we can find some champions with the necessary range—will set out early, perhaps on horseback, to determine exactly where the tsar’s family is being held. This is a one-time possibility; we cannot launch our effort without that knowledge.

“While the arms are being collected, and the patrol is out hunting, you will organize and train your force.”

“How… mmm… how big a force are we talking about?” Daniil asked.

Hoffmann didn’t need to consult any notes. “Call it ‘six hundred’ of which you can take perhaps five hundred with you, if my understanding of some things is accurate. Nice round numbers, no? They’re not absolutely fixed, either.”

“There’s no way for me to sneak ‘several hundred’ men through the lines, through a country that is rapidly disintegrating, into close proximity to the tsar, without being seen and thus triggering the murders you suggest are inevitable anyway. It just cannot be done.”

“Oh, certainly not,” Hoffmann agreed. There was a heavy admixture of good-natured laughter in his next words. “That’s why you’re not going to march across country, except for that forward patrol. Oh, no, my fine Russian Guards Captain; you and your men are going to go to your target in the highest style you can imagine.

“We’ll discuss that, however, later. First we have to get you out of here.”

Since Kostyshakov continued to sit, unmoving, Hoffmann asked, querulously, “What? You have another objection?”

“Yes, General; how in the name of God do you propose that one of my men is going to be allowed to ransack your dumps of captured arms, ammunition, and other supplies and equipment?”

“Don’t be a fool, Kostyshakov, or, at least, give me credit for not being one. I’m going to assign to you my own Major Brinkmann, a genuinely brilliant general staff officer, and he’ll have a small staff to assist, as well as a company of our own plus one of locals to guard your camp. The staff will include a paymaster to continue payment of camp currency. Best I can do, there. Well… and we can arrange better food, at least as good as our own frontline fighters get, and a commissary with a few luxuries.”

“There is still one objection, General Hoffmann, a final one, security. One word of this leaking out and…”

“Ah, that quintessential Russian paranoia. No, not just one word, Kostyshakov. It would take, it almost always takes, a pattern of facts that fit together to lead to a conclusion. We cannot hide your existence completely, so we’ll put out two mutually contradictory stories. One is that, since Russia is out of the war, we’re recruiting volunteers—mercenaries, in effect—for the western front. The other will be that we need a police force for the portion of Poland we will surely, and against my very strong advice, steal.

“We’re also going to vociferously deny any such scheme as Polish police and western front trench fodder, which should go a long way toward confirming in people’s minds that both are absolutely true. Add to that that you’re going someplace fairly desolate and rather miserable for your training, the kind of place no one is likely to stumble upon inadvertently. And, except for things like rifle ranges and rehearsal areas—and those can be explained away, if necessary, as being for the guards—there won’t be anything to raise suspicion.”

Hoffmann took off his Pince-Nez glasses, to clean. “There is one matter; I’ll need your parole, yours, and the paroles of those officers and men whom you recruit, that for as long as we’re engaged in this enterprise you will not try to escape and will prevent any one of the men from escaping.”

“Done,” Kostyshakov said, without a moment’s hesitation. There was no hesitation in the first place, because there had already been an agreement between Germany and Imperial Russia to allow officers to give their parole, their word, which agreement and word allowed them to leave the confines of their prison camps and stroll around a bit. There was no hesitation in the second place, because, “I will do anything, put up with anything, endure anything, to be the hand that frees my tsar and his family from the Reds.”

“Good,” Hoffmann nodded. “Now come on; I need to browbeat the commandant to get you out of here and put you together with Brinkmann to get this circus on the road.

“By the way, how’s your German?”

Now it was Kostyshakov’s turn to laugh. He answered in perfect Bavarian-accented German, “I learned it in high school. I have since had a year and a half to perfect it, here, and good reason to do so.”

“Excellent,” said Hoffmann. “And we’ll have to get you outfitted with a proper—Russian—uniform. Speaking of which, where are your medals?”

“I left them with one of the French officers, sir, a Captain de Gaulle. He was captured at Verdun. Were it possible—yes, I know it’s not—I’d put him in the battalion and take him along.”

“Well—can you walk? With difficulty? Good. Let’s go get your medals and anything else you’ve left behind.”

Hoffmann and Kostyshakov found the tall, lanky Frenchman sitting at a table, reading a hand-written manuscript and making notes from it. He looked up at the disturbance and, in one great motion stood, picked up Daniil, and twirled him about the cell like a child.

“Put me down, Charles, you bloody great frog!”

“Daniil, I’d heard—we’d all heard—that you had been wounded and captured. It’s good to see you, my old friend, back on your feet.”

“I can’t stay, Charles; I have to go with this gentleman.”

De Gaulle studied the German, briefly, then pronounced, “General Hoffmann; sir, I am honored.”

“Captain de Gaulle, is it?”

The French officer preened that so important a German knew his name. Kostyshakov thought, Now that was a generous and decent thing to do, making an obscure foreign captain feel important.

“Yes, sir.”

“What are you reading, de Gaulle?” asked Max, pointing at the neat pile of paper on the table.

“Not so much reading, sir, as re-reading. They’re the notes for one of the Russians who used to be here, one Mikhail Tukhachevsky. I promised to safeguard it and return it to him after the war.”

“Why didn’t he…” Hoffmann began to ask, before dawning realization hit. “He escaped, didn’t he?”

“Yes, sir,” De Gaulle replied. “I still don’t know how he managed it.”

“Ah, Tukhachevsky,” Daniil mused; “he’s an interesting mix of brilliance and madness, fair mindedness and fanaticism, all tied up in a neat little bundle wrapped with infinite personal ambition. A hell of an officer, in many ways. I’m going home, soon, Charles; I can see it to him if you wish and sooner than you are likely to.”

“Would you? I’d feel terrible to die in this miserable place”—de Gaulle let his eyes roam over the damp walls for a bit—“with my promise unfulfilled.”

“You’ll be wanting your medals, too, I suppose, and your other personal things?”

“Please.”

“I’ll get them, along with a satchel for Tukhachevsky’s manuscript.”

Asked Hoffmann, “So what, my good Captains, is Tukhachevsky’s vision?”

“He sees a maelstrom,” said de Gaulle, “with columns of armored cavalry ignoring their flanks, their own rear, everything, to get at and destroy the enemy’s rear… or at least to force them to keep displacing.”

“Do you agree?”

“Not really,” Kostyshakov answered. “He’s never read your Clausewitz, so never grasped the idea of the culminating point. Unlike the cavalry of Tukhachevky’s vision, cavalry reliant on its sabers and able to feed its horses off the land, modern mechanized cavalry, as Tukhachevsky sees it, needs a mass of everything from ammunition to spare parts to fuel to replacement personnel if they’re to keep going. That’s the part he refuses to see. You can take some risks with your flanks, yes, but you ignore your enemy, and his independent will, at your peril.”

“So where do you see the future heading?”

“From what I’ve read in your journals, Herr General, I see the future being the infantry squad or platoon, built around the light machine gun, supported by masses of artillery with which it maintains continuous contact, via radio, with tanks leading, and led by a man full of willpower and determination.”

“Hmmm… interesting,” said Hoffmann.

It’s almost worth it, thought Daniil, as he passed out of the camp under the glaring eyes of Abel and Blue Boy, to have taken a stab to the buttocks to see the faces of those two as I leave, accompanied by one of their generals, with my medals on my chest. Almost worth it…

Zittau POW Camp, Zittau, Germany

The walls of the office were painted revolutionary red. From them hung banners proclaiming, “Death to the Tsar,” “Long live the rule of the Soviets,” “Lenin, Lead us into the Future,” and “Down with the Opiate of the Masses.”

Kostyshakov, now sans medals, likewise epaulettes, who had come up with the slogans and arranged for the room to be painted red, sat at a long table, flanked by six other pro-Tsarist officers and a like number of noncommissioned officers he’d hand selected and personally interviewed the day before. There were a few others, but they were off with Brinkmann and his assistants rounding up materiel.

The day promised to be a long and exhausting one. The Soviet, for thus they chose to call themselves for the nonce, had to interview, after all, some sixty-seven noncommissioned and enlisted candidates, today, and more in a different camp, on the morrow. These had been chosen by the commandant of the camp, working with one of Brinkmann’s underlings.

“Bring in the first one,” Kostyshakov ordered. Immediately the German Unteroffizier at the door called out, “Dragomirov; report to the Committee.”

From left to right, as they faced, the officers of the board consisted of Lieutenant Boris Baluyev, sporting a remarkably fierce moustache, Lieutenant Georgy Lesh, Captain Mikhail Basanets, Captain Daniil Kostyshakov, Captain Ivan Dratvin, Captain Pyotr Cherimisov, and Lieutenant Vilho Collan, a monarchist Finn, and thoroughly pale and blond as Finns are wont to be. Each man wore a clean Russian uniform with no rank insignia and no indicator of regiment, though all but the Finnish officer had come from the Guards. Only one had been known to Kostyshakov from his own regiment, Basanets. But Basanets had known Collan and Dratvin, Collan had known and vouched for Cherimisov, while Dratvin stood for Baluyev and Lesh. After personal interviews with Daniil, they’d been accepted, “with reservations.”

To the right of the Finn were one sergeant and two Zauryad-Praporshchiki, those being Sergeants Major Nenonen, another Finn, much taller than Collan but otherwise much alike, and Sergeant Major Pavel Blagov, who was missing a piece of his right ear, plus Podpraporshchik Mayevsky, wearing a piratical eyepatch. To the left of Lieutenant Baluyev sat Podpraporshchik Gorbachyov, as well as Sergeants Berens and Kaledin. The latter was a Don Cossack, dark of hair and eye, answering to “Filip,” and the only Cossack present on the board.

None of them wore any rank. They all looked terribly serious, too, enough so to make Dragomirov pause and stutter in his reporting. And then there were the slogans on the banners hung on the walls. Dragomirov almost missed that there was a chair awaiting him.

Well, what the fuck do I care about the tsar, after all? Dragomirov asked himself. If it gets me out of here, I’ll kiss Lenin’s figurative ass.

The interviewee saluted more or less properly, which the others ignored, announcing, “Mladshy unter-ofitser Dragomirov, reporting as ordered.” Mladshy unter-ofitser was a rank somewhere in the range of corporal or junior sergeant.

Kostyshakov said, “Saluting is a relic of the oppressive past, Comrade. We don’t indulge in it.” He then ordered Dragomirov to take the chair to his own right.

“Tell us, Comrade,” Daniil began, “How do you feel about the glorious workers’, soldiers’, and peasants’ revolution now underway in the Motherland?”

“I’m all for it, Comrade,” Dragomirov answered. “Down with the blood-sucking tsar and all his evil brood.”

Kostyshakov pursed his lips and gave a serious and approving nod. Then he turned his head to his left, asking, “Comrade Basanets?”

Captain Mikhail Mikhailovich Basanets, easily the tallest man on the board, with dirty-blond hair and bright blue eyes, said, “Who was the greatest enemy of the people in your village, Comrade?”

That was a toughie for Dragomirov, since it was his family that owned most of the land and most exploited the peasants. But, needs must and all.

“My father, the swine. He squeezes the peasants like they were sponges!”

Basanets twisted his head to the left even as he nodded in approval. “Very good, Comrade. I have no other questions, Commissar Kostyshakov.”

Daniil looked to his right, inviting Captain Ivan Mikhailovich Dratvin to speak.

“Tell me, Comrade,” asked Dratvin, short, and dark, and built like a fireplug, “who here in the camp is most likely to support the revolution, and who remains a puppet of the tsar? Think hard, now, for this is important.”

After Dragomirov had given a dozen names of people he considered reliable to the revolution, and a couple who he claimed were “Tsarist hyenas,” Kostyshakov let two more of the board question him, which questioning went to his military record. Then he said, “I think we’ve all heard enough,” and asked for a consensus. Everyone on the board gave a literal thumbs up.

“Very good, Comrade Dragomirov,” Kostyshakov said. “It will be some time before all is in readiness—peace is being negotiated between the Germans and ourselves, even as we speak—so keep your health, don’t try to escape and risk being killed, and wait for the call to come to the defense of the revolution. Why, in a gesture of internationalist good spirits, the Germans are even segregating the Tsarists, the better to keep them from hindering the revolution.”

Pointing to the door on the left, Kostyshakov said, “Please go through that door and wait until our business is finished here. Don’t wander; there is a German guard and, to me, he looked a little trigger happy.”

After Dragomirov had left, Kostyshakov called for the next interviewee. The German at the door bellowed out, “Mokrenko? Rostislav Alexandrovich Mokrenko, report! Podkhorunzhy Rostislav Alexandrovich Mokrenko, report!”

Mokrenko entered, then stopped short as he took in the red walls and redder slogans. Drawing himself to his full height of five feet, eleven inches, Mokrenko cast a disgusted eye in the direction of Kaledin and spat, then demanded, “What is this shit?” he asked. “I’ll have nothing to do with it!”

Kostyshakov pointed to the other door and said, “Get out, then, Tsarist swine, and wait.”

“He was one of the ones mentioned by Dragomirov as being an incorrigible Tsarist,” said Sergeant Berens, after the door had slammed behind Mokrenko. Berens was the one who had been detailed to act as secretary.

“I wish they would all be as easy as these two but, of course, they won’t.”

“I know Mokrenko,” said Kaledin, wearing the good-natured grin that rarely left his face. “Good man. I can hardly wait until we tell him the truth.”

“He looks rather thin,” said Basanets, himself half emaciated.

“We’ll put some meat on their bones with a better diet and some exercise,” Kostyshakov answered.

Corporal Vasenkov, young, slender, and prematurely balding, was by no means an idiot. He knew one of the officers of the supposed Soviet, Captain Cherimisov, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was no possible universe in which the captain could ever be anything but a fanatical Tsarist.

As he walked to report to the “Soviet,” Vasenkov also thought, And Cherimisov is also not sneaky enough to infiltrate anything like this supposed “soviet.” That means this is all bullshit; they’re looking only to separate out revolutionaries from reactionaries. So where would a good communist like myself belong? In with the reactionaries, to sabotage them. Therefore:

“Corporal Vasenkov reports, Sir. But save your breath; I want nothing to do with you stinking communist scum.”

It was a weary group of Russians, Cossacks, and Finns who finally repaired themselves to the quarters the Germans had set aside for them. Of the sixty-seven interviews they’d conducted they’d had to reject forty-six. The twenty-one they’d accepted—Mokrenko plus all those sent after him through the door on the right—had identified between them another forty-one reliable enlisted men, and all of those were, even now, on their way to a tented holding camp before being moved, en masse, to their penultimate destination, a camp—code named “Budapest”—being put together in the hills about seven miles west-northwest of Jambol, Bulgaria.

And, thought Kostyshakov, with something analogous to weary despair, we’ve still got to hit the camps at Doeberitz, Skalmierschustz, Stalkovo, Hammerstein, Muenster, Tuchel, Koenigstein, and Czersk. There’s no way to do this with one board. I’m going to have to split the board into three and trust Basanets, Cherimisov, and Dratvin. They can hit three each over the next four or five days. But I’ve got to get to Camp Budapest and come up with a table of organization and a doctrine. I can only hope that my quartermaster and his German escort are taking everything that isn’t nailed down.

Railroad, between Ingolstadt and Munich

In a happier time, in a higher-class carriage, it would have been called “The Orient Express.” As it was, it was just another second-class carriage on overworked rail lines. Brinkmann, having left Kostyshakov’s rat-faced quartermaster, Romeyko, in the care of an experienced Feldwebel of supply, along with half a dozen armed guards and a corporal to oversee them, was travelling with Kostyshakov to Camp Budapest. It was about a sixty-hour journey, normally, but closer to seventy-two or even ninety-six, now, what with the exigencies of war. The steady clacking of the wheels might have put either man to sleep, but they had both resisted that siren’s call, so far.

Kostyshakov noticed that Brinkmann had a cane trapped between one leg and the wall of the carriage they rode in. He considered asking about it, but some people were sensitive to reminders that they’d lost something with their wounds, so Daniil decided to let it be.

While fighting off that call to sleep, Daniil still closed his eyes, tightly, picturing a group of soldiers bursting in with single shot, bolt action rifles, bayonets fixed, having their one shot at something—Ah, but it’s probably too dark even to tell—and then going forward with cold steel, even while the enemy shot down their prisoners whom they knew the positions of better than did the rescuers.

All right, we need a way to both temporarily blind the guards, while not blinding ourselves, then a way to light up the scene for ourselves, after they’re blinded.

“It’s never been done before, you know,” Brinkmann said to Kostyshakov. “Everyone by now knows how to go into a tight space and kill everything that moves, but I can’t recall any serious instance where anyone went into a tight space and tried to avoid killing the bulk of the people that were in there, unarmed, while killing a few of those who were armed.”

“I know,” Daniil agreed, looking up from a notepad on which he’d been scribbling intermittently but furiously. “And I’m trying to puzzle through it from the perspective of organization, doctrine, training to execute the doctrine, weapons, communications…

“And I don’t really know what I’m doing, just as you suggest.

“I don’t even know how I’m getting there.”

“All will be made clear soon,” Brinkmann assured him. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve got? I may be of use.”

Kostyshakov agreed, “Indeed, why not?”

With a sigh, he began to lay out what he’d figured out of the problem, so far. “In the first place, while they could be on a boat, or a train, or a tent, or in a series of caves, the odds are overwhelming that, when we find them, they will be in a guarded building.”

The German nodded sagely. “Correct, so far, I think. A guarded building—or maybe a compound—would be the way I would bet it.”

Daniil continued, “Okay… good… the building, it will be either lit or it will be dark. If at all possible, we’d probably prefer it to be dark, or, at least, we would if we could see and the guards could not.

“I think I have a way to do that. We can use photographer’s flash powder and replace most of the explosive in hand grenades with it. Might even want to use our army’s tear gas grenades, as being better for dispensing powder. We’ll know the grenades are going to go off—at least after it’s announced, we will—and can shield our eyes. That however…”

“Still leaves the problem,” Brinkmann said, “of how you see to shoot after the flash is gone. Even if you’ve flash-blinded their eyes, you are just as blind as they are. I may have a way.”

“Really?”

“Yes. We make a kind of electric torch—it’s a flattened cylinder with a dynamo in it—that you wear on your chest. It has a ring on a chain that you pull and get, oh, maybe five seconds of fair directional light. Five seconds in combat is a long time.”

“Can we…?”

“I’ll wire my Feldwebel escorting your Captain Romeyko to lay in a supply. But how many do you need?”

Kostyshakov considered a number, cut that in half, and then cut it in half again and yet again. “Sixty? Eighty? I wouldn’t refuse two or three times that number.”

“Sixty should be possible,” Brinkmann agreed. “Maybe more but with the war on…”

“And the grenades and flash powder?”

Brinkmann waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, those are easy.”

“Wonderful. But then we have the problem of getting through doors. Some, of course, can be broken down by main effort, but some are going to be stout enough that a steel lock is weaker.”

“I cannot help you there,” the German replied. “I have no idea how to do it myself. Explosives?”

Daniil frowned, then said, “Would be fine except for the possibility of the odd tsar, grand duchess or crown prince on the other side.” He didn’t mention the tsarina because in both his opinion and the opinion of most Russians, putting her on the other side of an explosion could only be to the good. Okay, that was both unkind and unfair. Based on what I saw of her at the hospital, she’s mostly just out of place and shy.

“I can see that,” agreed Brinkmann. “And even if you had trained lockpicks, it would be very slow.”

“Too slow. And then we have the problem,” Kostyshakov continued, “of needing more and handier firepower in very close quarters.”

“Shotguns to simply blow locks apart and… well, I make no promise that I can get any, let alone many, but we have a new machine gun… a machine pistol, really… that’s very nice. It’s not light, mind you, and the range is quite limited, but it is handy and is excellent for taking someone down in a hurry at close range.”

“Limited range, for our purposes, would be fine,” Kostyshakov said.

“I’ll tell my man escorting Captain Romeyko about those then, too; that, and to order some.”

“There’s one other thing,” Kostyshakov asked, “Do we know for a certainty where the royal family is being held?”

“They were moved,” Brinkmann said, “from Tsarskoe Selo to possibly Tobolsk, arriving sometime in August of last year. The last we’ve heard, they’re still there. But we have also heard of other Romanovs being held in Yekaterinburg. It is possible that they’ve been moved. It is possible they will be moved.

“Have you thought about organization?” Brinkmann asked.

“Yes,” Kostyshakov nodded, “at least tentatively. Wherever they are, there’s going to have to be a super elite force to go in and rescue them. I am thinking somewhere between seventy and ninety men. Wherever that is, the odds are good there will be a substantial guard force or relief force nearby. For that I am thinking two companies, but heavily reinforced with all the firepower we can come up with. Any force needs an organization for support, both combat and more mundane matters like medical, mess, and transport.”

“Can you do all that with the limits General Hoffmann set you?”

“I think so. I hope so, anyway.”

Citadel, Warsaw, Poland

Somewhat unsurprisingly, Warsaw’s central location not only meant it was a key rail center, it also meant it was the location for one of the German Army’s salvage companies,[1] of which there were thirty-nine, that took enemy equipment, secured it, repaired it, organized it, and re-issued it when called to do so.

Those supplies and equipment could be anything from medical supplies to mess kits, artillery to rifles and machine guns, uniforms to Gulaschkanonen, to whatever the mind can imagine an army using. Some of it could even be one’s own equipment, captured by an enemy and then recaptured by one’s own forces. The Germans, being both tidy by nature and also having to fight most of the civilized world on a relative shoestring, were more thorough about combing a battlefield for Beute, loot, than most.

This particular dump was staggeringly large.

“Rifles, seven hundred,” said Captain Romeyko, Kostyshakov’s ugly quartermaster. He was accompanied by a tall German noncom, Feldwebel Weber, dark blond, mustached, and slightly stooped.

“What kind?” asked the supply clerk through Weber. “We’ve got thousands of standard rifles, plus some of our own sniper rifles, plus a modest number of shorter carbines in your caliber.”

“Four sniper,” Romeyko replied. “Are those Model 1907s over there? Yes? I’ll take twenty. Can we have those over and above the seven hundred? I’d hate to run short, you know?”

“No problem,” Weber said.

“Water-cooled machine guns, six. Uniforms, large, three hundred and eighty. Also four hundred and eighty, each, uniforms medium and small. Rank insignia; I’ll write down a list. One thousand, four hundred blankets. Packs and load carrying equipment, ammo pouches and canteens, seven hundred sets. Hats, oh, seventy-five each of every size, up to nine hundred. Gloves, same. Boots… boots are harder to guess at… let’s say, one hundred and eighty pair each, from sizes thirty-eight through forty-two. Woolen footwraps… one thousand, four hundred pair.”

The Feldwebel translated, got an answer from the clerk behind the counter, laughed, and conveyed the answer to Romeyko.

“‘Rifles are easy,’ he says, though he may have to send to the depot at Kuestrin for that many. Machine guns have been mostly taken already; he has four of your own Model 1910. Ammunition is plentiful, too. The uniforms and hats are easy. Insignia and field gear are easy. He says you can have a hundred times that many if you want them. But German soldiers like your boots for the winter, and your gloves as well. Same for your blankets. Also, we use the same general kind of footwraps, when we can’t get socks.”

“But Feldwebel Weber…”

“Don’t worry, sir,” said Weber. “We can get all those from German stocks. May not be what you want. May not be the highest quality, not what you might have expected of us three or four years ago, but they’ll do.”

The clerk at the counter said something else which definitely piqued Weber’s attention. The Feldwebel said something to the clerk, which sent the latter scampering off into one of the back bins.

He came back bearing something that nearly made Romeyko’s beady eyes water.

“A Lewis gun? Here? My God…”

“He tells me,” said Weber, “that he’s got twenty-seven of them. He thinks they all work. But they’re in your caliber and not worth converting to ours, while supplying your ammunition to them would be such a confusing pain that nobody wants them. With as many magazines as… no, ‘four hundred and eighty-one magazines,’ he says.”

“If I can have them, I’ll take them all. And, shall we say, two million rounds of ammunition.”

“He says the ammo is no problem, either,” Weber said, “though he doesn’t have that much here. Three or four million rounds if you want it. But we might have a problem shipping it.”

“How about two thousand hand grenades? And, yes, four million rounds would be very nice.”

“He says he has that some of your kind of grenade, but if you want our kind…”

“Both? Both would be good. As many of both?”

“We can get ours, yes.”

“Cots? Mattresses?”

Weber asked. “No,” he translated, “but I am sure we can find some straw ticks, lumber, and nails.”

“Well… at least the tents should be set up by then,” said Romeyko. “Pistols?”

Weber checked. “Yes, he has a great many of your pistols. ‘All you could possibly want,’ he says. But he adds, ‘But why would you want them?’”

“Because it’s on my list,” Romeyko replied. “Strikes me as a pretty good reason.”

“No reason is good enough to saddle your men with Nagant 1895s,” Weber countered. “Let me check something.”

A fairly lengthy bout of German followed, which Romeyko could not follow. When it was done, the Feldwebel said to the Russian, “He’s got a fairly esoteric collection of pistols, ranging from the Nagant, to some almost fifty-year-old American Smith and Wesson single action revolvers, to some Lugers captured from us and then recaptured by us, to a couple of dozen Mauser C96s, unfortunately not in nine millimeter, to… well, the most interesting are the American ones, the newer kind. In eleven and a half millimeter? Real manstoppers.”

Romeyko interrupted, “How many of the Amerikanski ones does he have?”

“A hundred and forty-seven,” the German answered. “Ammunition can be gotten for them, too. They’re still here, he says, because, again, the ammunition is non-standard now.”

“How about a round hundred and twenty of those? With maybe five hundred rounds each? A thousand would be better.”

“He says he can do that… and that you might as well take all the ammunition he has, about eighty thousand rounds.”

“Great! Compasses?”

“Would those wrist-mounted jobbies work?”

“Adrianovs? Splendidly.”

“He says he has about fifty of those.”

Interlude

Tatiana: Cutting firewood

Colonel Kobylinsky’s kindness manifested in the strangest of ways. Papa had been increasingly anxious, being locked up in the house, while having nothing to do. Alexei was well, too, and whenever he could manage it he took advantage of doing as much as he could.

He did this despite knowing that a slip, a fall, a cut, would result in weeks of pain. Mama and Papa not only allowed it, but encouraged it, because they knew he could not live his life otherwise. But I feared that their decision to give Alexei this freedom had come too late because here in Tobolsk, there were fewer opportunities for him to do all the boyish things he’d not been allowed to do all his life.

That’s why when beech trunks arrived, Papa asked for saws and axes to cut the wood down to size and Colonel Kobylinsky agreed.

I pulled on my coat, hat, and gloves, and followed them into the side yard, eager for some fresh air and sunshine.

Flexing muscles that had once been too weak to lift him off his pillow, Alexei worked the saws and axes with Papa, cutting the trunks down to size for use in the kitchen and the stoves. Even with four of us girls huddled together, our bedroom was an ice-house.

The scent of sawdust mixed in with the crisp, cold air. As the pieces fell off the saw horse I picked them up and stacked them and kept thinking how nice it would be to have the rooms warm once again.

Papa and Alexei’s cheeks were red from the cold and the effort, but they both had smiles on their faces.

Back and forth the saw went, singing its way into the wood, accompanied by labored breaths. Joy, our little liver-colored spaniel, ran about sniffing and barking. Her long, silky ears almost touched the ground as her nose worked.

Meanwhile, Ortipo, our French bulldog, was running back and forth, playing fetch with a couple of the guards. They had found an old lawn tennis ball—a ratty thing with a wool cloth covering the rubber—and used it to entice Ortipo into playing.

He was such a mischievous little thing, with his too-big ears that stood up atop his head like antennae, that one could not help but love him.

The soldiers would fake throwing the ball and he’d scold them, stocky body jumping up and down like he had springs in those little legs. The soldiers would laugh, then throw the ball, and Ortipo would be off like a shot.

He’d pick up the ball, strut it back, and exchange it for a pat on the head and then wait expectantly, tiny little tail vibrating with anticipation, until it was thrown again.

As Papa placed a fresh log on the saw horse, Alexei wiped his nose and said, “I miss Vanka.”

Of all of us, I knew that Alexei missed Vanka—his donkey—the most. The former circus donkey, loved pulling the sledge and doing tricks. He was also an expert pick-pocket. No matter how hard anyone tried to hide treats, Vanka would figure out how to get them out, usually to much giggling and wonder.

Back at Tsarskoe Selo the soldiers had first shot Alexei’s pet goat. Then the deer and swans. That’s why I dared not think of what had happened to our pets. We dared not ask. Instead, we locked the memory of them in our hearts, for that’s all we could do.

That’s all that was left to us. And enjoying the ones that were still with us.

I noticed an oddity among the soldiers who guard us. Mama and Papa seemed completely oblivious to it, but Olga and I, the “big pair,” have always been too close for me to have missed it. There’s a new soldier among our guards—I didn’t quite catch the name, Dostov-something or other—and my dear sister, Olga, is decidedly interested. Indeed, watching them dance around each other, it was all I could do not to laugh, they’re both so obviously interested.

I can understand it, I think. He may be from a peasant background, and I’m not even sure he’s literate, or much so. He’s a big one, too, this Dostov-person, from his height to his corded muscles to the gleam of latent ferocity in his eyes. There’s still no doubt; looking at him you know that here is a man, one who can protect what is his. And, God knows, we all need a protector now, and Olga more than the rest of us.

Chapter Four

Tobolsk, Russia

Chekov’s old rank meant nothing now. As newer men in the First Rifles, Chekov and Dostovalov drew night guard shifts first, so Chekov woke early in the evening of his sixth day at Tobolsk, swung his legs off the wooden board that served as his bed and stood, stretching with a mighty groan. His back creaked as much as the wood planks beneath his feet. The barracks room was quiet, a handful of other night-shift soldiers comatose among the rows of wooden bunks. The rest of the night shift was probably still in town getting drunk and making mayhem. He saw Dostovalov’s bunk empty—easily distinguished by the fact that it was the only one properly made.

Must have woken early. Hopefully I can catch up to him in the canteen.

Chekov pulled his pants on quickly then jammed his arms through his shirt sleeves and started buttoning up. His big friend had been making cow eyes at the oldest Romanov girl, Olga, the one with the lovely round face, ever since they’d first seen one another in the hallway. The girl had a melancholic air to her when she spoke but always seemed to brighten around Dostovalov, and she took frequent occasions to step outside for chats with him. Chekov had forged a wordless alliance with the second Romanov daughter, Tatiana, to keep an eye on the deposed grand duchess and impulsive veteran soldier. Still, he didn’t want to leave Dostovalov alone in the mansion for long; the man was really quite good at talking young women into very bad ideas.

On that dark thought, Chekov jerked close the knot on his bootlaces, slung his rifle over his shoulder, then pushed through the barracks door. He marched rapidly to the canteen. It was a short walk. The door of the canteen creaked open to reveal a couple of dozen brown-uniformed guards already at the dinner meal. The room was dominated by three long picnic tables with a griddle and pot against the far wall.

A bar of soap sat, seemingly untouched, at a sink near the entryway. Chekov frowned as he turned on the faucet and began to rigorously wash his hands, as had been his custom ever since he was a small boy under the watchful eye of his father, a surgeon. The water was pleasantly cool and Chekov kept his hands under the spray for half a minute. Having completed his exorcism of microbes, Chekov twisted the knobs on the faucet to full off, waved his hands dry as there was no towel, and proceeded to the buffet line to retrieve his food.

A chubby, disinterested looking cook piled eggs and kolbasa on his plate and there was a pot of thick black tea next to the griddle from which Chekov poured a mug. Settling down at the far end of one of the tables, Chekov started to inhale his meal as rapidly as safety and a modicum of manners permitted. The manners were not for his fellows, most of whom ate like pigs, but simply more ingrained habits of childhood.

“Hey, Chekov.”

A rough voice drew Chekov’s eyes up from his meal. A tall, broad man, as big as Dostovalov, approached. His brown-yellow eyes held none of Dostovalov’s warmth though as he sat down, uninvited, across from Chekov. The man had black hair with a pronounced widow’s peak over his hatchet nose, and crooked, yellowed teeth were visible in the middle of his bristly black beard. Chekov had seen the man around, he was with another company in the First Rifles, but they hadn’t been introduced.

“Yes, how can I help you, Comrade…?” Chekov kept his voice level.

“Yermilov,” he said. “Washed your hands like you were getting ready to take tea with the tsar over there. Thought you were a hardened war hero, not some bourgeois fop.”

Hygiene is counterrevolutionary now?

“All the war heroes are dead,” Chekov said, in between bites. “I’m a survivor, and I have the habits of a survivor.”

“Oh, daintily washing your hands is what survivors do?” Yermilov said.

“Indeed,” Chekov said, he set his fork down and gave Yermilov a steady, unimpressed look. “I lost boys to German shells, bullets, mines, gas, but unlike other units, none of my men died shitting their brains out. Know why? Because we washed our fucking hands as best we could before we ate.”

“That why the Imperialists gave you their shiny medals? Your table manners?” Yermilov said.

Chekov snorted and picked up his fork again.

“Leading men in war isn’t just about the shooting and screaming,” Chekov said. “It’s about the little shit you do in between to keep the men alive and able to fight. Then again, I expect you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Yermilov?”

The big man’s nostrils flared and color tinged his cheeks.

“That’s right, I was never cannon fodder in the tsar’s useless war,” Yermilov said. “From what I hear, though, all the ‘little shit’ didn’t actually keep your men alive after all, did it?”

Chekov’s hand clenched painfully on the handle of his dinner knife. For a second, Chekov imagined Yermilov grasping at its hilt with sticky, red-coated fingers as he died, yellow-brown eyes wide, gasping for air around the dull blade planted in his throat. He was sorely tempted to make the image a reality.

The conversation around them stopped, a couple dozen brown-uniformed men stared, waiting to see how the new man would react. Forcing a deep breath in through his nostrils, Chekov banished the gratifying vision of murder and calmly sawed off another piece of kolbasa.

“So it would seem,” Chekov said. “Do you have a point, Comrade Yermilov?”

Chekov maintained his level, unfazed stare as he chewed another bite of sausage and egg.

“Just this, Chekov,” Yermilov said. “Don’t think you’re better than the rest of us because you managed to kiss enough ass to get both the tsar’s flunkies and the Provisional Government to think you’re some big hero.”

“Right,” Chekov nodded. “Well, I don’t know that I’m better than any of these lads,” Chekov gestured with his chin to encompass the room, “And I’m definitely not better than anyone because I’m a war hero. But I’m better than you, you personally, Yermilov, because you’re a pathetic mudak with a chip on his shoulder and you waste better men’s time with your bullshit because you know that’s what you are.”

Yermilov put a boot on the bench, making to leap across the table, but Chekov’s reflexes were viper-quick. As far as his nervous system was concerned, he was still on the front, ready to kill Germans. Chekov’s left hand shot out and grabbed a healthy clump of Yermilov’s coarse black hair. Using the man’s own inertia against him, Chekov slammed his head down into the table with a mighty crack.

When his head came back up blood poured from Yermilov’s over-prominent nose, while his eyes were unfocused. Chekov, hand still entwined in Yermilov’s hair, pulled his opponent off balance and forward, then twisted, so he sprawled across the table on his back, sending Chekov’s dinner flying across the floor. He pressed his dinner knife, point first, into Yermilov’s throat hard enough to draw a bead of blood. Looking up he saw three men closing in from another table.

“That’s far enough,” Chekov said, his voice eerily calm. He twisted the dinner knife just a little so the bead became a trickling line. Yermilov’s three would-be rescuers stopped. Chekov took a good look, memorizing their faces. Then he looked down into Yermilov’s piss-shit eyes, which were now wide with fear.

“I want you all to hear this,” Chekov said, looking up again, voice echoing throughout the now silent mess hall. “I’m not a hero. I’m not the tsar, or the Party, or the father who knew the postman was humping your mothers. I’m just a man who has seen too much shit and wants to be left alone. Tell your friends.

“Wanna prove your manhood? Take it to the whores down at the brothel. They’ll at least pretend to be impressed for a couple more rubles or a dozen eggs. Wave it at me and I’ll chop it off and feed it to you.”

Chekov looked down at Yermilov.

“And as for you, Yermilov,” he said in a lower voice. “I’m not interested in boxing with you. You give me any more shit, I’ll slaughter you and your friends over there like pigs. Understand?”

Yermilov’s jaw worked silently for a second, but he didn’t have enough fight in him to mouth off to a man with a knife at his throat.

“Da,” he said.

Chekov applied a fraction of an ounce of pressure to the blade, just to see Yermilov’s eyes widen in terror again. Point sufficiently made, he withdrew the knife and released the man’s hair, then shoved him from the table to the floor. Setting the knife back on the table, Chekov retrieved his rifle and slung it. Without another glance at Yermilov or his friends, but with his right hand clenched on the contraband pistol in his jacket pocket, Chekov walked with an intentionally casual gait, first to clean the tip of the knife and then back to the food line.

“I’m sorry,” he said mildly to the cook. “There was an accident and my food spilled. Could I get another plate?”

“Anything you want, Comrade,” the chubby cook said, hastily ladling out another helping of kasha, some kolbasa, another slab of bread, a dollop of butter, and some salo.

His appetite was gone, chased away by the adrenaline dump, but Chekov knew he would be hungry later if he didn’t eat now. So he secured his second plate, returned to his spot at the end of the third table, and resumed eating, more slowly this time. Yermilov, helped by his cronies, made his way out of the canteen. All their eyes were firmly fixed on the floor as they went.

The previous guard shift was already off duty by the time Chekov reached Freedom House. And, of course, Dostovalov stood at the back entrance, his tall, wide frame dwarfing Olga’s slender figure. Dostovalov laughed at something the girl was saying and the smile on Olga’s face would’ve lit up Petrograd. Chekov picked up the pace, gravel crunching under his boots as he stomped up to the back door.

Well, at least he doesn’t have his paws on her.

“… it’s true,” Olga said, continuing their conversation as Chekov drew near. “Whenever Alexei was upset with Mama and Papa he used to pack up his toys and ‘move’ into my room and declare me his mother.”

“A handful, your little brother,” Dostovalov said.

“Yes, but you must understand he’s been denied so much because of his condition,” Olga said, earnestly.

“Indeed,” Chekov said, slicing coldly through their conversation. “A terrible condition. A peasant boy with hemophilia would almost certainly have died by now.”

Olga’s pretty face fell, Dostovalov’s darkened.

“That was unkind, Sergei Arkadyevich,” Dostovalov rumbled.

Chekov sighed.

He’s right, it’s wrong to flog a young girl with things that aren’t remotely her fault just because of her parents.

“It was unkind,” Chekov said, kicking the toe of his boot against the Freedom House’s stone steps. “I apologize, miss.”

Dostovalov glared at Chekov, clearly wanting him to offer a more elaborate apology, but Olga seemed mollified.

“It’s quite all right,” Olga said. “I know we’ve lived a relatively comfortable life; at least up until now. It’s thoughtless of me to complain when so many have suffered as much or worse.”

Oh, sure, make me feel like more of an ass by being gracious.

“Not in the least,” Dostovalov said, quickly. “Right, Sergei?”

“Quite right, indeed,” Chekov said with a small nod. “Your family has quite enough to be getting on with.”

Olga smiled again, though not without a hint of reserve.

“Anyway, Tatiana will be done helping Mama settle in for the night soon,” Olga said, with a regretful look at Dostovalov. “I should probably go back inside so she doesn’t fret when she gets back to our room.”

“Good night, Olga Nikolaevna,” Dostovalov said.

Olga smiled demurely.

“Good night… Antosenka. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Chekov waited until the door shut behind the girl before he rounded on his friend with an incredulous look.

“‘Antosenka’?” Chekov said. “Since when are you Antosenka?”

Dostovalov grinned and shrugged.

“Just because she’s the tsar’s daughter doesn’t mean she can’t flirt a little,” Dostovalov said. “Not everyone wants to be an ascetic like you.”

“Just keep your hands off of her, all right?” Chekov said. “In the current climate fraternizing with the tsar’s daughter could get you shot by either side.”

“You think the monarchists can pull it together long enough to be the ‘other side’?” Dostovalov said.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Chekov said. Both men were wise enough not to ask aloud the open question of what side they would be on should a force of Tsarist Loyalists come knocking on the Tobolsk Governor’s Mansion’s front gate. “General Dutov and his Cossacks keep making noise.”

Besides, we both know we’re on the side least likely to get us killed—whichever that ends up being.

“In the meantime we’ve got plenty of problems already,” Chekov said. “No trying to sleep with the tsar’s daughter.”

Chekov related to his friend Yermilov’s challenge, his own answer to it. Dostovalov chuckled and shook his head once Chekov was done speaking.

“What’s so funny?” Chekov said, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

“You are,” Dostovalov said. “You’re mad at me for flirting when you nearly murdered another soldier twenty minutes ago. Yes, word travels that fast around here. My friend, I don’t know how you form your priorities, but you may need to reexamine what worries you and what doesn’t.”

“No one is going to shoot me for beating up a bully in the mess,” Chekov said.

“Except maybe the bully and his friends,” Dostovalov said. “New order, new rules; sometimes it seems like no rules.”

“Only one rule,” Chekov said. “It’s just us, Anton. We gotta live. If others want to help, great, and we’ll help them if we can, but at the end of the day it’s you and me.”

Dostovalov’s cheerful face grew somber as he considered Chekov’s words; after a moment he nodded.

“Da, you and me, Comrade.”

Every third night they were off and, since their sleep cycle was well and truly screwed in any event, Chekov and Dostovalov usually stayed out late enjoying the limited pleasures of Tobolsk. As soldiers in the employ of the Provisional Government, they were able to get food and liquor in exchange for their paper currency without having to barter.

Their fourth night off, they had dinner in a small restaurant, really a couple of block tables in the parlor of the butcher’s house. Rationing precluded the existence of normal restaurants. The cozy wood-floored room was sparsely furnished and lit by two flickering oil lamps. The food was good, God alone knew where the butcher was getting the meat and produce to make decent meals.

As far as Tobolsk’s night life went, Chekov thought the butcher’s little eatery about the best option available. Every other place was crammed with Red Guards or recently discharged soldiers or prison guards from the local penitentiary, all throwing their weight around, waiting for an excuse to brawl.

There were a couple of local brothels, but Chekov didn’t have much interest. He wasn’t, despite his friend’s jests, saving himself for marriage. He’d paid a whore for her services once but found the process awkward and sad and had a hard time even finishing. It had contented him from that point forward to handle pent up sexual frustration himself, in private.

Chekov noticed, though, that Dostovalov appeared to have lost his usually healthy appetite for whoring. His big friend only snorted when Chekov asked him about his apparent lack of interest.

“Have you seen the poor creatures working in the brothel here?” He said, then held up a hand in negation of his own questions. “No, of course you haven’t, you’re still vying for sainthood. Well, trust me, there’s nothing there you want to stick your prick in.”

Chekov eyed his friend suspiciously.

“Since when is there anything you don’t want to stick your prick in?”

Dostovalov shrugged eloquently and continued to shovel thick orange solyanka soup into his mouth.

“You’re not avoiding the local talent because you’re pining over the grand duchess, are you?” Chekov said.

“Well, technically, she’s not a grand duchess anymore,” Dostovalov said, leaning back in his chair and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But I don’t pine for anyone.”

“Good to hear,” Chekov said before taking another spoonful from his bowl. “We have enough problems.”

“Right,” Dostovalov said. “What are we going to do with this mess?”

Chekov chewed up and swallowed a spoonful of pickle, sausage, and broth, then glanced around the room. The butcher and his wife busied themselves in the kitchen shifting iron pans around their wood-burning stove, well out of earshot. No other patrons filled the tables this late.

“It looks like the civil war is inevitable,” Chekov said. “In which case, we don’t have a lot of great options. I suppose we could desert.”

“Yaroslavl is a long way from here,” Dostovalov said. “And my hometown is even farther.”

“Right,” Chekov said. “They probably check the trains at every stop for deserters and travelling cross country in winter is a good way to freeze to death.”

“We could steal horses,” Dostovalov said.

“There are no civilian horses around here; they’ve already been eaten or requisitioned,” Chekov said, shaking his head. “Or they’re hidden. If we steal army horses, that just gives them more incentive to hunt us down. And let’s say we get away, I know you’re a rustic outdoorsman but I’m not at all confident about living off the land for more than a week or two, how about you?”

“I was a farmer, Sergei, not a woodsman,” Dostovalov said. “There’s plenty of wild game, but precious little shelter. Anytime we come into town looking for a place to sleep we’ll be in danger of getting pressed into one army or the other.”

“Or shot as deserters,” Chekov agreed. “We stay here for now, I think. At least we’ve got food and a warm place to sleep. We can always run later if we have to.”

“What about your friends from the mess hall?” Dostovalov said just before finishing off the last of his soup.

“Yermilov and his cronies haven’t given me any more shit,” Chekov said. “If they do, we can always arrange an accident.”

Dostovalov grunted his agreement, leaned back in his chair and held up two fingers to the butcher, indicating he should bring two servings of the local samogon, home distilled liquor that was far less legal and far more available than proper vodka. The chubby man hustled over to their table with a jug and two wooden mugs.

“Here you are, Comrades,” he said.

The home-distilled hooch gave off a pungent, burning odor as the butcher filled their mugs.

“Phew,” Chekov said, rearing back. “Are you selling us the lamp oil, Grandfather?”

“Now, lads,” the butcher protested, “This is the best samogon you’re going to find in Tobolsk!”

Dostovalov grabbed his mug and knocked back a large swig. A grimace contorted his features as his throat worked. He coughed violently and slapped his hand on the table once the liquor was down.

“Jesus, what did you ferment to make this? Your knickers?” Dostovalov said in a husky voice.

Chekov laughed, and the butcher’s brow furrowed with offense.

“Relax, Grandfather, just a jest,” Dostovalov said after he finished coughing. He laid several more rubles on the table. “In fact, leave the bottle. It’ll do just fine.”

The butcher snatched up the rubles, appearing mollified, and left them to their drinking.

“It doesn’t taste as bad as it smells,” Dostovalov said.

“That’s a low bar,” Chekov said as he brought the mug to his lips and sipped at the liquor. After the fire of grain alcohol subsided, Chekov thought he could detect a bit of the wheat. He exhaled loudly and swallowed.

“Well,” he said, choking a bit. “It’s not the worst rotgut I’ve tasted, but it isn’t exactly the pevach either.”

Dostovalov’s answer was interrupted by the door to the butcher’s house swinging open with a bang against the opposite wall. A cold gust caused the flame of the wood burning stove to flicker, and chilled Chekov’s skin, despite the warmth of the fire and the liquor in his belly. The three men who entered with the wind chilled him more.

Ensign Matveev led the trio into the dining room. He glared as he stepped inside, eyes glittering over his snow-coated beard. Chekov doubted the head of the Soldiers’ Soviet was here looking for hooch and some hot soup. Worse, Yermilov’s ugly, snaggletoothed face appeared in the doorway behind Matveev, followed by one of his cohorts from the dust-up in the mess hall. Yermilov grinned maliciously at Chekov as he stepped inside.

“Good evening, Comrade Ensign,” Dostovalov said.

Matveev nodded at Dostovalov and Chekov, then turned back to Yermilov.

“All right, Yermilov,” he said, deep voice dark with annoyance. “I am here, at one in the god-damned morning. What’s the misconduct I’m supposed to witness?”

“Comrade Ensign, take a sniff at their drinks,” Yermilov said, pointing like a schoolyard tattletale. “That isn’t tea, it’s samogon. Chekov and Dostovalov are trafficking with kontrabandisty.”

The butcher sucked in a sharp breath at the accusation of bootlegging. With food critically low across the country, the Bolsheviks had declared it illegal for anyone to distill wheat, or any other foodstuff, into the high-proof liquor. Depending on Matveev’s mood, the butcher and his wife could be fined, or they could be executed, Chekov thought furiously.

How the hell did Yermilov know we came here?

“It’s not theirs, Comrade Commissar,” Chekov blurted.

“It isn’t?” Matveev said, raising a thick black eyebrow.

“No, Comrade,” Chekov said, shaking his head. “In point of fact, we actually have had that bottle since Pskov.”

The butcher exhaled and his posture relaxed fractionally.

“It’s true, Comrade Ensign,” Dostovalov said. “We picked it up on our way back from the Front and have been waiting for a night off to celebrate. Smell it like Yermilov said and I think you’ll agree it’s Ukrainian; no Russian would brew such foul cow piss.”

Dostovalov held the bottle out to Matveev. The ensign took the bottle and sniffed from the neck. Grimacing, he recoiled from the booze.

“You’re right, that smells like a Ukrainian whorehouse on Monday morning,” he said. “Well, lads, you know you’re not supposed to be drinking contraband liquor, so I’m afraid I’ll have to tell Colonel Kobylinsky to take your next two free nights.”

Chekov maintained a firm, deadpan expression. Yermilov’s face fell at Matveev’s leniency.

“Comrade Ensign,” he protested. “This is a serious breach of discipline, surely—”

“Yermilov, if I flogged every man who got into some illicit liquor, I couldn’t muster a squad to guard Citizen Romanov,” Matveev said. “And if you ever wake me up in the middle of the night for something this frivolous again, I’ll have you flogged. Get out of my sight.”

Chekov did allow himself a small smirk over Matveev’s shoulder at Yermilov. The ugly bully and his lackey departed, their shoulders hunched against the freezing winds outside.

Matveev sighed, then turned his attention to the butcher.

“Citizen, I am not a man of mysticism but reason,” Matveev said. “Nevertheless, I prophecy that the Tobolsk Soviet will send inspectors tomorrow afternoon to ensure there isn’t any hoarding or illegal distilling happening on these premises. I trust they will find nothing, da?”

“Of course, Comrade Ensign,” said the butcher. “Thank you!”

“No thanks necessary,” Matveev said. “It is supposed to be the people’s revolution, after all,” he added in an undertone.

“As for you two,” Matveev said. “I’d watch myself if I were you. Personally, I wouldn’t piss on Yermilov’s face if his nose was on fire, and neither will Kobylinsky, but if he gets those assholes from the Soviet involved, you could find yourself subject to discipline anyway.”

Chekov nodded grimly.

“We’ll keep that in mind, thank you, Comrade Ensign.”

Dostovalov washed as best he could without inducing hypothermia in the freezing barracks bathroom. Fall had brought yet another revolution and a steep decline in temperature. Of the two, Dostovalov was far more concerned with the cold weather in Tobolsk than he was with the Bolsheviks in Moscow.

He parted his hair carefully then dragged a cold razor across his cheeks, chin, jawline, and neck, paring his facial hair down to just his thick, black moustache. Hygiene complete, he dressed in uniform and overcoat rapidly, grabbed his rifle, and hurried out into the frigid night air.

Tonight Chekov was out with some of the other lads, attempting to make some more friends to counterbalance Yermilov and his thugs. Personally, Dostovalov thought they should just proceed with Yermilov’s accident. Chekov argued, probably correctly, that Yermilov’s untimely death occurring so soon after he informed on them would certainly rouse suspicion.

That’s why he’s the thinker, and I’m the doer, speaking of which—

Dostovalov hopped a waist high picket fence—such a pedestrian barrier to the residence of what used to be the imperial family—and made his way through the snow to the back door of the governor’s mansion. Two uniformed men stood, shivering, on either side of the door. Dostovalov raised his right hand in greeting.

“Dostovalov, right on time!” the young man on the right said. This was Virhkov. The other guard, another youngster named Blokhin merely nodded his greeting.

“Virhkov, shhh,” Dostovalov said. “Wouldn’t want to wake Citizen Romanov or his family, would we?”

“No, I suppose not,” Virhkov said. “Thanks again for covering our shift.”

“Don’t mention it,” Dostovalov said, then, acting on impulse, he peeled a few rubles out of his pocket and handed a couple each to Blokhin and Vhirhkov. “In fact, buy a round for the lads on me, eh?”

Their young, unlined faces lit up.

“You’re a real pal, thanks,” Blokhin said. Virhkov nodded rapidly behind him.

“Off with you, youngsters,” Dostovalov said, grinning. “Go have fun.”

The two youngsters trudged off through the snow. With the proper guards relieved, Dostovalov settled in for another sort of vigil. He leaned against the wall, a dreamy smile curving his lips. He imagined Olga, lithe of limb and slender of figure, wrapping herself in her thick coat even now, perhaps tiptoeing her way out of the bedroom she shared with her three sisters. Was she as excited to see him as he was to see her?

What has gotten into me? Sergei was right, I am pining.

The back door creaked open and Olga, bundled in a thick black fur coat, stepped out onto the back patio of the mansion. She smiled at him, blue eyes sparkling like sapphires in the moonlight. Dostovalov inhaled deeply.

“Good evening, Olga,” he said.

“Good morning, you mean, Antosenka,” she said, her smile turning impish. “It’s almost two, I thought you’d found better company.”

Dostovalov chuckled and shook his head.

“I can think of no better company in all the Russias,” Dostovalov said.

“I bet you tell all the girls that,” Olga said, shivering against the cold night air.

“Perhaps,” Dostovalov said. “But I’ve rarely meant it before.”

Olga slapped his arm and laughed merrily.

“‘Rarely,’” she quoted. “You are an impudent scoundrel. I’ve known men like you.”

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Dostovalov said. “But I don’t think you’ve known a man like me in your life.”

Olga blushed, but then her face fell.

“Please don’t call me that,” she said. “They hauled away Bishop Germogen just for praying for my father as, ‘the Emperor.’ I don’t want you in trouble.”

“It’s two in the morning,” Dostovalov said. “I doubt there’s anyone around to hear us, but I take your point.”

“Please do,” she said. “Say, do you have a smoke? It’s freezing out here and I could use one for my nerves.”

Dostovalov obligingly tapped out a cigarette and lit it for her. Olga took a long drag off of it and sighed. Dostovalov nodded in approval; the girl hadn’t flinched at the ration-card quality tobacco.

“You’re wrong, you know,” she said.

Dostovalov’s eyebrows shot up, and he tilted his head at her.

“Not about that. No, I mean I’ve been around soldiers—and not just the officers. Tatiana and I worked in a hospital for the wounded. That’s where I picked up this habit.”

Olga gestured with her cigarette, then took another large puff.

“I know,” Dostovalov said. “They made sure we knew about you and the empress tending the wounded.”

“It wasn’t just photographs for propaganda, you know,” Olga said. “We assisted in procedures, helped save some lives, even. And we would sit and talk with the boys while we sewed or knitted blankets. Brave, wonderful boys, most of them. Mother, Tatiana and I were exhausted all the time, but we were happy. What we did mattered. One of my favorites, Mitya, had a big black mustache like yours. Though of course his manners were so very refined.”

Olga softened the last with a gently mocking tone and a smile.

“An officer, I presume?” Dostovalov said, frowning.

“Yes, an officer,” Olga said. “Don’t be jealous, Antosenka. Once he was recovered, he went back to the front. I was very sad when he left. Then the February Revolution, and the October. I don’t even know if he’s alive still.”

Olga was quiet for several seconds, her gaze far off, her expression unfathomable.

“I know the war was terrible,” Olga said. “I saw the men maimed by it. But I think what’s coming is so much worse. I’m afraid. For my family, yes, but for all Russia as well.”

Dostovalov gently grasped Olga’s shoulder through the thick fur and drew her close. She stiffened at his daring, but then relaxed, leaning into him, and accepting the comfort he offered.

“I think they’ll let you leave eventually,” Dostovalov said. “The communists don’t want to anger Britain or the rest of Europe at this point, not while they’re so fragile.”

“They also don’t want the monarchists to have figureheads to rally around,” she said. “No, they’re not letting us leave Russia alive.”

Dostovalov squeezed Olga tighter, her body warm against him even through his coarse uniform and her furs. There, in the bitter cold of the Siberian winter, her fragility was a tangible thing, the fear coiled inside her warring with the nobility and dignity expected of her. Even with the Romanov Dynasty thrown from the halls of power into captivity, Olga and her family carried themselves upright and proud—but not with the idiotic, inbred arrogance he’d seen from so many of his officers in the Army.

Never as politically aware as his friend, Chekov, Dostovalov had simply viewed the nobility and royalty as something that, much like bad weather or pestilence, God meant to be endured. They were inflicted upon the common man to build character in the here and now and make the fruits of the hereafter all the sweeter in comparison. He neither loved nor hated the imperial family as he neither loved nor hated a snowstorm—the existence of both were mere facts of life, no sense staying mad about them. He expected the communists would be no better, and thus was unperturbed that they seemed to be fucking everything up.

The Romanovs as people, though, were nothing like what he’d expected. The former emperor was unpretentious, quiet, polite, and practically radiated integrity. His love for his children shone in every word and deed, and their adoration of him was just as obvious. After three weeks observing them around Freedom House, Dostovalov allowed himself the uncharacteristically philosophical observation that maybe they’d simply been too good a sort of people to rule Russia effectively. Except perhaps the empress, she seemed like a bit of a reclusive loon, but even she had been polite and cordial in her own clenched-jaw fashion.

And amidst them all, Olga shone brightest to the war-hardened Dostovalov. He admired her tenderness with her ailing little brother, her unabashed affection for her sisters, especially Tatiana, and the way she struggled valiantly against her own melancholy to find the joy in even simple, day to day chores. The tendrils of their shared doom seemed to grasp her more tightly than they did the serious and practical Tatiana, the affable Maria, or the incorrigible Anastasia, but still Olga shone in defiance of her blackest thoughts and feelings.

She was, he thought, simply magnificent.

I’ve enjoyed so many women in my short life, why, oh, God, would You decree I must love a deposed princess?

“Whatever happens,” Dostovalov said. “I’ll defend you.”

“And how many girls have you told that?” Olga said, drawing away enough to search his expression.

“One,” Dostovalov said. “I’ve promised one young woman in my entire life that I would defend her no matter what came.”

Olga’s eyes widened, and she took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, creating a small cloud of smoke between them. She shifted, not out of his arms, but to face him. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, her lips parted invitingly. Dostovalov leaned in and kissed her.

Her arms encircled his neck and she pressed herself into him with abandon. For several glorious seconds, there was no war, no impending catastrophe, even the freezing indifference of Siberia seemed to abate. When their lips parted, Dostovalov took a deep shuddering breath, Olga’s eyes shone as she smiled up at him.

“You should come inside, Antosenka,” she said. “We’ll catch our death out here.”

“Guards are not supposed to enter the mansion,” Dostovalov said.

“Unless invited to do so,” Olga said. “I’m inviting you for the reason that you will protect us more ably inside with some hot tea inside you. If anyone asks, of course.”

Olga opened the door quietly and pulled Dostovalov along with her into the Freedom House.

Rubbing his hands for warmth, Yermilov grinned crookedly as the back door of the Freedom House swung shut. Two weeks of skulking paid off—the giant oaf really was fucking one of the Romanov girls. The oldest one, the prettiest one. Some of the men talked about the second daughter, Tatiana, but Yermilov had always thought that bitch too skinny, too German-looking with her thin face and cold gray eyes. Olga looked like a Russian girl.

Yermilov had allowed room for little else in his thoughts but revenge on that bastard Chekov for the humiliation he’d inflicted in the canteen. Sadly, after the slip up with the bootlegger, Chekov had proven too clever by half. He did his duties, he ate, he drank, a lot, but never to the point of stupefaction, he slept, he rose and repeated. He and Dostovalov socialized with others from their detachment in the First Rifles, Tsarist bootlickers, the lot of them. The Romanov girls flirted with them like whores, and they curried favor with the former emperor as if he were still in charge of the country. Pathetic.

In any event, Chekov had been too smart to slip up, but his big friend was clearly nowhere near so cautious. Dostovalov was thinking with his cock, and that was going to be the death of them both. And Nikolashka’s little whore daughter might get more than she was bargaining for while he was at it.

Interlude

Tatiana: Tobolsk

Monsieur Gilliard and Papa spent the last few days building a snow mountain. They hauled water by bucket. It was so cold that the ice formed in the bucket as they moved it between the tap and the hill.

But it was a welcome distraction and we were all looking forward to tobogganing.

Unfortunately, Monsieur Gilliard fell and twisted his ankle and wasn’t able to enjoy the hill he’d helped build.

We girls ended up covered in bruises, all from sliding down the hill, but we didn’t care. What were a few bruises to us? We were out in the sunshine, laughing, our hearts beating in our chests, our breaths puffing small clouds in front of our faces. We were alive and, more than that, for a little while we were living.

It wasn’t long, however, until Siberia’s famous winter finally hit us. The crisp, sunny days turned dark and cold. Wind rattled the windows and the rafters, an unwelcome stranger pushing its way in until the glass was thick with ice.

We spent what seemed like endless days inside, wrapped in the thickest, knitted cardigans. Despite wearing our felt boots and our heaviest coats, we were cold as we huddled in the corridor to keep warm.

Sometimes Papa read to us, but today it was too dark and his voice was giving out from a cold. We dozed as we sat up against the wall. Mama, sitting in her wheeled chair next to Papa, had her head propped up against his shoulder, her eyes closed, breathing evenly. A warm blanket lay across her lap. Usually she preferred to sew or write, but the cold made her fingers too stiff.

Sleep was beckoning to me too, but a creaking sound pulled me out. Olga was gone.

I pushed up and quietly made my way downstairs and up the long passageway to the kitchen, the only other room that was warm enough.

Olga was sitting at the table, head in her hands. She’d taken off her woolen cap and her blond hair, still short, like all of ours, from our bout of measles lay plastered to her scalp. It seemed duller somehow and I didn’t think it was the gray light falling through the shutters’ narrow slits.

As I crossed to the table, I stepped on a cockroach. They were everywhere, the filthy things. It was a good thing that Mama didn’t come in here often.

I slid into the chair next to Olga and placed my arm around her.

She’d never taken much interest in her looks or been bothered by how she appeared to others, but now I saw something else—a haunted look that didn’t come from her ill health. It was the look of someone who, having loved and lost, had resigned herself to that loss.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

She nodded and returned her gaze to her gloved hands.

“Missing Mitya?” I prompted. Dmitry Shakh-Bagov had been Olga’s favorite at the hospital where we had worked as Red Cross nurses. A Georgian adjutant in the Life Grenadiers of the Erevan Regiment, he had been the latest in a series of crushes.

Like all the others, he wasn’t an appropriate prospect for a grand duchess, no matter how much Olga wanted him. She hadn’t mentioned him in months and I thought she’d gotten over him, but as I looked into her eyes I realized two things. The first was that she hadn’t, though she may have been in the process of replacing him in her affections. The second was that she was in mourning. For him. For herself. For what it all meant.

I put my arm around her, and drew her closer. It wasn’t just the uncertainty that we were facing. It was the realization that things were getting worse and worse. I no longer believed that we would be allowed to peacefully retire to a private life, whether here in Russia or elsewhere. And I could see now that neither did Olga.

“We have to put on brave faces,” I whispered into her ear. “For Mama and Papa.”

She swallowed and nodded. Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes and the ghost of a smile settled onto her face like the mask that it was.

Did mine look as ill-fitting?

Chapter Five

Kermen, Bulgaria

The sun was still down and the moon not yet up as the locomotive screeched to a halt in a cloud of steam. From inside the cloud—it and the station illuminated by the electric lights of the station—came the shrill cry of the whistle, the shriek of brakes, and the nails-on-a-blackboard sound of steel tires trying to grip steel rails. The whistle, contrary to many suppositions, was not always to warn pedestrians ahead, but also to tell the other locomotive that a stop was coming, so they could brake as well.

Behind the locomotive rode the tender, a coal and water car to feed the locomotive, while behind it stretched a dozen troop cars, two of what Daniil took to be mess cars, from the smoking funnels atop them, another three troop cars that he supposed were for the German guards, and nine more mixed freight and flatcars, presumably holding the equipment, ammunition, and perhaps some of the food.

Yes, food, he was certain, based on the sound of mooing cows from near the rear of the train. Daniil stood up from the large trunk on which he’d been sitting while awaiting the arrival of his new command.

The last three troop cars opened first, with about eighty uniformed and armed Germans emerging.

That’s less than they carry and less than Brinkmann told me were on the guard detail. Presumably the others got off on the far side to ensure nobody escapes. He glanced down at the trunk.

Most of the Germans spread out, forming a thin double line of skirmishers, encompassing the entire train station and loading platform, and facing in both directions. A handful of Huns, officers and senior noncoms, proceeded to unlock and push aside the sliding doors, allowing crowds of Russians to emerge, squinting against the light.

So thin they are, the enlisted men, thought Daniil. Their uniforms barely fit. The Germans must have fed the officers better than the rank and file, it seems, even in Fort IX. How’s that going to play out with rations that are less than great even for front line combatants?

From each carload, one or two officers plus one or two senior noncoms came to Captain Kostyshakov for instructions. Romeyko, having arrived the previous day with an even larger load, was not among them, but was puttering with something else on the platform.

“The camp’s about four versts[2] northeast of here,” Daniil told them. “It’s mostly uphill. Job one is to load the equipment and supplies on the wagons. Whatever doesn’t fit the wagons goes on our backs.

“Job two is to make sure no one runs. For that…”

Daniil turned and opened the trunk, revealing a goodly number of pistols, plenty of spare magazines, holsters, plus several thousand rounds of strangely labeled ammunition.

“Romeyko, when I’ve finished, issue each company first sergeant and above one pistol, three magazines, and enough ammunition to fill them, plus one round.”

“Gentlemen, if someone tries to desert—note I said ‘desert,’ not ‘escape’—it will be on us to shoot them, if necessary. Better that than be seen as being mere stool pigeons for the guards.

“Once you have your arms, take charge of the men and get those wagons filled. They’re not marked by company; Romeyko will sort all that out when we get to camp.

“Job three… Basanets?” Daniil had to strain his neck to look the tall captain serving as his executive officer in the face.

“Sir?”

“Job three is for you, Mikhail Mikhailovich, to take a detail through every car occupied by our men and make sure they are completely devoid of any hint of who we are, what we are, where we came from, and where we’re going. No graffiti. No notes stuck in cracks. Nothing left behind. And get some of the shit from the cars carrying the cattle and spread it around.”

“Yes, sir,” Basanets agreed.

“Job four is marching to the camp. I want us to be out of here before sunrise—before the first hint of sunrise—with everyone accounted for and nobody in the town the slightest bit wiser about who we are.

“Questions?”

Seeing there were none, Daniil said, “Go, then. Draw your pistols.”

The officers and noncoms saluted, turned about smartly, and began to crowd around Romeyko.

“What are these?” Basanets asked. “I’ve never seen…”

“Amerikanski M1911s,” Romeyko answered. “Big bruisers, eleven and a half millimeter. The tsar bought something like fifty thousand of them. Some thousands ended up captured by the Huns. I talked a supply sergeant in their army out of one hundred and twenty, with magazines, plus another two hundred and forty magazines, and holsters and ammunition pouches for the lot. And a lot of ammunition. It didn’t take a lot of effort; he was just as happy to be rid of them. They’ve got slots on the holsters we can fit our belts through.

“You may as well go first, Mikhail. Pick one. Don’t forget your magazines and holsters.”

Basanets reached down and grabbed as he was told.

“Read off to me the serial number, please?” Romeyko asked.

“C49715.”

“Very good, thanks,” said Romeyko, jotting the number down in a ledger himself. Ordinarily, this would be a job for a Russian podpraporschik, a noncom, or even one of the rank-and-file clerks. As it was, everyone was too busy so Romeyko took weapons issue upon himself. It had, too, the advantage of putting him near the horse drawn wagons to make sure they were fully loaded.

“Next! State your name; take your pistol, your holster, your magazines, and your ammunition. Don’t be greedy, twenty-two rounds only.”

“Dratvin, Ivan… C84386. But I don’t even know how to load this thing, let alone use it.”

“Right… five-minute class after we finish issuing.”

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when the column set out. It might have begun to move sooner, but two of the men, thinking they might escape and perhaps get home a bit sooner, attempted to hide above the train’s axles and had to be flushed out at bayonet point. These now marched awkwardly, looped rope running from one neck to the other, gagged, with their hands tied behind their backs, stumbling, too, from the rope that kept their feet to no more than a two-foot, eight-inch step. A senior noncom, Zauryad-Praporshchiki—or Sergeant Major—Blagov walked behind them with a sharp stick, prodding them to keep up and kicking them when they fell, then lifting them by their hair.

Almost none of them knew just why they were here, where they were going, nor to do just what. Neither had the locked cattle cars they’d been brought in given them any degree of confidence about their individual or collective futures. They didn’t even know where they were, not even to the level of what country.

Daniil turned around, walking backwards to watch the column ambling along behind him.

The officers and noncoms we’ve armed already walk straighter. But the mass of them? They walk like sheep, listless, stupid, unknowing, and uncaring. Of course they do; they’re still weak from the camps while a few days’ decent—well, half decent—food on the train wasn’t enough to restore them.

And they are demoralized, still, Kostyshakov thought. Can’t blame them; they don’t really know anything. Probably worried about the future. So… in a little bit…

Halfway to camp, when the column was out of sight and out of earshot of the town, Kostyshakov, marching at the front, veered off the frozen dirt road and led the column into a half circle, in open field, just off the road.

When they were halted there, in that half circle, Daniil put up both hands, palms facing himself, and made come hither motions with his fingers, directing the men to break ranks and crowd in around him. The German guards gave each other questioning looks but didn’t interfere.

Once the soldiers were clustered around, the nearest perhaps a dozen feet away, Daniil ordered, “Front ranks… sit!”

That made it possible for the men to both hear and see him better, as well as for Daniil to see them better. He waited then a few moments more for the two in fetters to make it to the rear of the assembly.

“Guardsmen,” he began, “it is time now, now that we’re out of sight from prying eyes and out of hearing for eager ears, to tell you why; that, and what’s coming over the next few months.

“We are, in the first place, going to a camp that has been set up for us by the Germans, with whom—and I cannot emphasize this enough—we are no longer at war. They’re going to be guarding us, still, but that’s to keep word of what we’re engaged in from getting out.

“It’s not a bad place, I understand, that camp; tents, yes, but they have wooden floors, warm liners, and there are stoves for each with an adequate supply of coal. In this camp—it is called ‘Camp Budapest,’ and no, we are nowhere near Budapest—we reform as a composite Guards battalion. This battalion will eventually consist of two rifle companies, Second and Third, plus the First Company, consisting of the Headquarters and Staff platoon, which will include a small intelligence section, plus all supply and support, plus various heavy weapons. Oh, and a small strategic reconnaissance section. There will also be a short company’s worth of replacements. Finally, the smallest company, Grenadier, will be specially armed, equipped, and trained to take the lead in accomplishing our mission.

“No, before you ask, we will be paying zero attention to your previous regimental affiliations. Note, too, that though we are all from elite regiments, and our own battalion is elite, among us Grenadier Company will take a large share of the very best and will have rank to award commensurate with that.

“No, also before you ask, except for the support specialists in First Company, I don’t know who will be in which company. We are going to spend about three weeks, possibly four or even as many as five, if we must, identifying a certain type of man for Grenadier Company.

“Grenadier Company will not even form until we have identified the people who will fill it. All of us, until then, will be in First, Second, or Third.”

“You will be well fed; much better fed than the poor bastards left behind in the prisoner of war camps. Indeed, as you may have noticed on the train, we are now on the German feeding scale for their own combatant personnel. Yes, I understand the train food may have been a little rough and ready; it was still better than the previous camps’. You will also be paid, and at a better rate than you were getting in camp, too. Some alcohol will be available for purchase, but it will be rationed. We have no room for drunkards.”

And my, didn’t that perk them up?

“Security, however, means no women. No, not even whores.”

That got a groan, but it was mostly joking. Nobody really expected field brothels in the Russian army.

“If you can’t fuck the calories off,” Daniil continued, “you can reasonably expect to burn off all that extra food through training and working. Now… questions?”

One man, seated on the ground, raised his hand.

“Yes?”

The man who had raised his hand stood to attention. “Umm… beggin’ yer pardon, sir, Corporal Panfil, Leonid.”

“Yes, Panfil?”

“To do exactly what, sir?”

Daniil laughed, lightly. Nice when you can predict question one so completely. He raised his voice to carry. “Hmmm, didn’t I tell you all? I guess I didn’t. We’re going to go save the tsar and his family.”

Rostislav Mokrenko, Cossack by birth, cavalryman by trade, and prisoner of war until quite recently, still shook his head ruefully at how completely he’d been suckered by the red walls and redder banners of the interview room at Zittau.

I should have known, he thought, when I saw Kaledin sitting there that that was no assembly of Reds. He’s more of a Tsarist than I am. Hell, he’s more of a Tsarist than the tsar is… or was.

Glancing to his right, Mokrenko said to Kaledin, “You dirty bastard; you could have told me sooner.”

“Couldn’t, Rosti. Couldn’t take any risks with anyone spilling their guts. C’mon; you’re an old soldier; you know that, even without being told.”

“I suppose,” the other Cossack conceded. “And, what the hell; we get back into action.”

Head up, as the heads of the rest were also proudly up now, Mokrenko whistled the first nine notes of the hit song of a few years prior, “Farewell of Slavianka,” the notes usually accompanied by, “Vstan zva Veru, Russkaya Zemlya.” Arise for the faith, O Russian Land.

From where Mokrenko marched, side by side with Kaledin, the tune was picked up and the words added by each marching soldier, many perhaps thinking of his own farewell from his woman, years before:

“The moment of parting has come to us,

As you look to my eyes with alarm…”

Marching a dozen ranks back from Mokrenko and Kaledin, Vasenkov thought, Of course you sing, you reactionary swine. And I’ll sing with you, since I must.

Camp Budapest

The singing hadn’t lasted the full distance. Even with a modest pace and no equipment to lug by hand—the wagons had, in fact, proved adequate to the need—the men were worn out by the time they reached the camp’s gates.

They passed through the gates, now guarded by German soldiers who, now seen in daylight, looked a bit long in the tooth, between several ranks of tents, and onto a bare parade field, unadorned by anything like a reviewing stand.

I’d like to blame it, thought Daniil, on not feeding them breakfast at the station, but that’s not it. They’re just in wretched shape. Speaking of which, I wonder what…

“Basanets?”

“Yes, sir?” the captain asked, from on high.

“Take charge here for a bit. Divide them into their three companies, then turn matters over to Sergeant Major Blagov to see them through the mess and equipment issue. I want to go see what’s being served.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Basanets, accompanying it with a thin sketch of a salute.

The mess was one of the few solid buildings constructed so far, the others being the guards’ mess, the officers’ mess, the armory cum supply office, and the headquarters, plus a few officer’s shacks. Most officers, like the ranks, would bed down in tents, on straw. Even the sparse hospital, to be under a civilian MD, Dr. Gazenko, was only five tents separated from the main area and from each other. And one of those tents was to serve as an examination room, while another was for billets for medical personnel.

The messes were not large enough to actually seat anyone; for that there were tents and wooden tables and benches. There might be buildings to eat in, eventually. Even where buildings stood, already, though, the wood was cheap stuff, roughly sawn, and crudely assembled.

Just before entering the mess kitchen, Daniil passed by an enormous pile of mess kits and a crate of eating utensils, tied into sets, overseen by one of Romeyko’s few clerks. The kits were Russian models, copper. Their general form was like the Germans’, kidney shaped when looked at from above, but the dimensions were rather different. Water was steaming in a large kettle slung over a wood fire, for the troops to sterilize them before use. A few crude brushes hung from a rack next to the kettle.

The clerk stood and saluted, which salute Kostyshakov returned, saying, “At ease, soldier. Hand me one of those, would you?”

“Yes, sir.” The clerk reached down and grabbed one kit at random. Opening it, Daniil found it was perfectly clean.

“Are they all this clean?” he asked.

“Yes, sir; very thorough people, don’t you know, the Germans; that, and sanitary. Well, I suppose they have to be, packed in like they are. But apparently all the battlefield leavings they salvage they also clean and maintain.”

“How many do we have of the kits?”

“On the theory that some would be defective—none of them are—Captain Romeyko got seven hundred and fifty. We have a good many extras.”

Hmmmm, thought Kostyshakov, that’s a lot of pretty high-quality copper we can trade, if anyone has something to trade for it.

Daniil passed the mess kit back. “I’ll draw mine with the rest of the officers, after the men are fed.”

He stopped then to examine the lay of the kitchen. The door was just a space covered by a piece of canvas. The exterior walls were mud-chinked. There was some kind of oiled paper over the windows, impossible to see through but admitting a degree of light. An overhead covering, held up by four-by-fours and extending perhaps twenty-five feet from the door, provided a modicum of shelter for some of the troops. Gravel lay over the dirt, in near enough to the exact dimensions of the overhead shelter.

Of course, that’s not about troop comfort; that’s about keeping the ground dry—or drier—to reduce dragging mud into the mess.

Stopping at the door and pulling the canvas aside, Daniil felt the wood framing the door. It was overlapping rough-sawn pine with the bark still on. Some class of wood, at least, is still plentiful. Speaking of which… Daniil walked into the kitchen, hot and steaming after the cold morning air.

Pointing at the grayish brown half loaves on display, Daniil asked of the elderly German noncom responsible for both kitchens, “What’s in the bread, Feldwebel…?” He noticed the chief cook wore an Iron Cross, First Class, on his apron. This was not common.

“Feldwebel Taenzler, Herr Oberstleutnant…” the head chef hesitated.

“It can’t be worse than what’s fed at the prison camps, Taenzler.”

“It varies with what’s available,” the German admitted, “and, yes, better than what’s served in the camps, from what I hear.” Picking up a half a loaf, the German continued, “These loaves have some wheat, a lot of rye, some lentils, some maize, a good deal of potato flour, and…”

“And a bit of sawdust?” Daniil prodded.

“Not sawdust exactly, that’s only for bread for prisoners of war, and that only if we’re desperate, but wheat and rye bran, yes. Under ten percent, by weight, but yes, sir, bran. I won’t say that some bakers, unscrupulous or desperate, take your pick, don’t sometimes resort to ‘tree flour’—or even worse things—but the army? No.”

Well, I’m glad of that.

“Is that what’s authorized for a combatant ration?” Daniil asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, what else have we got?”

“Officially? Officially, Sir, the men get about five or six ounces of meat a day, but officially Germany is winning the war, too. It’s very difficult, I find, to reconcile those two bits of information.

“Unofficially, a lot of the meat will be ‘war sausage,’ which we call a ‘mouthful of sawdust’; no, there’s no sawdust in that, either. It’s mostly vegetable in origin, flavored with some blood, some meat scraps, some offal, some fat. It’s not sawdust, but it feels like it is. I counsel against enquiring too deeply as to where the fat came from; suffice to say that at least it isn’t human. Oh, and water, too, of course, lots of water.

“We might get fish, occasionally. It’s likely to be past its prime. Some of the meat, too, will be horse… but you don’t get much meat from a horse anymore, what with overworking and underfeeding.

“Frankly, we get what we can at the front and those behind get less. But, then, too, it could be worse; we could still be trying to keep body and soul together with rutabagas, and not enough of those. And cattle starving because people were eating the rutabagas that the cattle usually ate.

“We’ll have some potatoes,” the chief cook continued, “some vegetables—I have my men scrounging for nettles for soup—occasional cheese—no, it isn’t good cheese—some peas, some beans. Every man’s supposed to get an egg a day but two a week is a surfeit of riches; one is more likely and not every week. Most of the time there will be a kind of fake egg made of potato or maize, some coloring, and maybe some additives that don’t bear thinking about. Butter is… well… it’s curdled milk, some sugar, and also some food coloring. Sometimes we get Schmaltz, which has the great virtue of, at least, being mostly real. Today, we have enough Schmaltz. Coffee… we have enough ersatz…”

“Roasted acorns, beechnuts, and chicory? I’ve had that; we all have,” Daniil said.

“That, yes. It’s not good, especially, but it is a little better than nothing. And on a cold winter’s night… not much sugar for it, mind, and rarely any milk.”

“And this,” Daniil asked, “is what you’re feeding your own men?”

“When we can get it,” the cook answered. “Sometimes we can’t. Mind, there is a better ration, but it’s usually only fed for a few days, maximum a week, before an offensive. It’s close to real food. But talk about mixed feelings…”

Note to self, talk to Brinkmann about getting on that superior ration scheme.

Daniil sniffed. “Stew?”

“Yes, sir, stew. I thought about porridge for breakfast but not only didn’t I have any real milk, I figured something a little heartier might be more to taste after the camps. Besides, we were able to scrounge some mushrooms to eke out the little bit of meat for today.”

“How did you end up running a mess?” Daniil asked, pointing at the Iron Cross.

The cook grabbed a long ladle and tapped his left leg with it, producing a hollow, wooden sound. “Verdun,” he answered, in full and complete explanation.

Daniil shook his head; he’d heard about the battle in great detail from de Gaulle; there were no words for someone who had gone through that particular hell on Earth. Finally, he said, “While you don’t actually work for me, do let me know if there’s anything I can do to help with your operation here. We’ll do our best.”

As I am pretty sure you will, old soldier.

“There is one thing, Herr Oberst? I could use at least one Russian cook to advise me on Russian recipes.”

“Now that, Feldwebel Taenzler, is an excellent idea. Indeed, we have some cooks, six or seven. Let me arrange to send them to you, some or all. Do you have anyone who can speak Russian?”

“Polish? I can at least get by in Polish.”

“We might have a Pole.”

While the men were drawing food, to be followed by individual equipment, less small arms, in one part of the camp, in another the remarkably unlovely Captain Romeyko and his assistants were laying out unit equipment packages on the still grass but soon to become dirt street in front of the quartermaster’s shop. This consisted of nine Lewis guns, in 7.62x54R, each, for Second and Third Companies, plus two 37mm light infantry cannon, French captures, two Russian Maxim heavy machine guns in the same caliber as the Lewis guns, for First Company, as well as two 13.2mm antitank rifles the Germans had been willing to part with.

Still more sat in the quartermaster shop, unneeded as of yet; more Lewis guns, extra 37mm jobs, a couple of the extra heavy machine guns, plus four sniper rifles the Huns had also been willing to pass over.

“Ammunition for all this?” Kostyshakov asked Romeyko.

“It’s not infinite,” Romeyko replied, “but it’s surprisingly generous. The Huns may not be able to produce enough food, but they seem to be able to produce more than enough ammunition.

“Of course, since what they’re giving us was mostly captured from us in the first place—well, us, the British, and the French—‘generosity’ may not be the precise word.”

“What have we got?” Kostyshakov asked. “Roughly, I mean; I don’t need to know down to the round.”

Romeyko pointed to a large angular, tarp-covered pile outside the camp, saying, “About a million, three hundred thousand rounds of our own rifle and machine gun ammunition. More should be coming. There’s also four thousand rounds of the German stuff, for the sniper rifles they gave me.”

“How many of those?”

“Four, but I figured we’ll wear out two in training and want to take two with us.”

“Okay,” Daniil agreed. “Go on.”

“We’ve got a bit over eleven hundred rounds of the 37mm. I could have gotten more but some looked a little iffy… well, no, worse than a little iffy. Again, I’d say ‘generous’ except that it’s captured French stuff and not compatible with their own 37mm infantry guns.”

“Horses and mules?” Daniil asked.

“‘Tomorrow,’ the Huns say, but I am cautioned not to expect too much.”

“How about grenades?”

“Hand grenades? Just over twenty-one hundred of theirs and a like number of our own. There’s also a drum of the photographer’s flash powder you wanted. That’s got to be enough, based on comparative sizes, for a few hundred grenades, at least.”

“Shotguns?” Daniil asked.

“Two, no spares, few hundred rounds of birdshot. Apparently, the Huns don’t issue them to their army, nor generally capture any. The two I was able to get were taken from civilians in the occupied zones.”

“The machine pistols?”

“Not yet,” Romeyko said. “My German counterpart has a request in, but it hasn’t been filled.”

“We really need those,” Kostyshakov said. “I don’t even want to think about trying this with just rifles.”

“Well, we’ve got the pistols,” the quartermaster pointed out.

“Think you can get another few hundred thousand rounds of the Amerikanski ammunition to practice with?”

Romeyko shook his head, doubtfully. “Maybe, but they probably wouldn’t have let me have the pistols at all if they’d had enough ammunition to justify issuing them to their own.”

“Nag about those machine pistols, then; we have to have them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How about the dynamo lights?”

“Those, at least,” Romeyko said, “the Germans have come through with.”

“How many?”

“Sixty-two, but three of them don’t work. And we don’t have anyone with a clue to how to fix them.”

“Have we asked…”

“Yes, sir; the Huns don’t know either.”

Something about the two rows of nine Lewis guns each bothered Kostyshakov, but he couldn’t put his finger on just what it was. He stared at them a long time, thinking hard. It mattered. He knew it mattered but…

“Crap,” he said aloud. Then he told Romeyko, “We’re going to be pulling the Fourth Company’s personnel out of Second and Third. That means one of two things, either Second and Third will get shorted one of their Lewis guns, or Fourth Company will have to train people—and it won’t have the time for this, starting so late—on light machine guns they know little or nothing about.”

“Put out two more, one for each rifle company?” Romeyko asked.

“Yes, and quickly.”

Mokrenko, Kaledin, and Panfil signed for and took their mess kits, mugs, and eating utensils from Romeyko’s clerk, opened the mess kits and examined them, then dipped them in the hot water by their wire bales. They swished their utensils around in the water, poured the water out into the kettle, then got in line under the overhang. Ahead of them the canvas “door” barely ever closed, and never fully.

The mess line ran almost the full length of the kitchen, with only a two-foot gap to allow passage between the cooking area and the space where the men to be fed passed.

First up, Mokrenko saw, was an enormous pile of bread, three pound loaves, he guessed, one half per man. He followed the men ahead of him by sticking his half loaf under his left arm.

Next came a thick stew, ladled into the lower half of his mess tin by an indifferent cook. What it was thickened with, he couldn’t tell. Neither, looking down into his steaming mess tin, could he see any meat in it, though he thought it would at least have some much-missed fat.

There wasn’t any butter for the bread, but as each man got to that point in the line, a German cook took his mess kit and knifed onto it a few tablespoons of what looked to be some kind of fat.

Kaledin sniffed at it, warily. “Smells like… chicken… maybe.”

Seeing the doubtful look on the Russian’s face, the German cook dishing out the Schmaltz beckoned for him to stand closer. The cook then broke off a piece from the bread under Kaledin’s arm. On this he spread a little of the Schmaltz before offering the piece back to the Russian.

Doubtfully, Kaledin took the proffered bread and popped it into his mouth. “It’s not bad, actually, though we’ll probably have to find happiness elsewhere. I’d prefer salo.” That latter was basically pork fat, cooked or raw, sliced or diced, and something of a delicacy to the Russian palate.

“What is it, though?” Panfil asked.

“Chicken fat, I think, purified or rendered. Strong tasting, but one can certainly eat it.”

“We’re all skin and bones,” Mokrenko said. “Anything to put on a little meat and fat would be to the good.”

“Yes, but eat slowly,” Kaledin counseled, “if you don’t want to lose everything you’ll have eaten.”

Unsurprisingly, nary a scrap or crumb of the food was wasted. Men used to long semi-starvation will rarely turn up their noses at the unfamiliar. Outside each mess tent were three more kettles of water, two to wash and rinse out the mess kits, in succession, and one boiling kettle to sterilize them.

Sergeant Major Blagov stood there, a glaring, fearsome presence, inspecting at random to make sure the men cleaned their kits before leaving the area.

“From here, go to the area by the main gate,” Blagov bellowed. “One of the personnel clerks will give you your company area. Go there and wait. From there your companies will take you to equipment issue.”

Kaledin was sent to Strategic Recon, First Company, while Panfil went to the infantry gun section, and Mokrenko likewise to the strategic reconnaissance section of the same company. The clerk also told them where their company billets stood and directed them to report to the company sergeant major, forthwith.

While every man selected by the committees could read and write, few of them had watches. The company first sergeant for First Company, Mayevsky, fiercely mustached, with a patch over one eye, directed them to go to different tents, make themselves at home as best they could, telling them to assemble at noon to go draw personal equipment and uniforms.

At noon First Company formed ranks, in a single mass of just under two hundred and four men, plus the two sergeants major and First Sergeant Mayevsky standing outside the formation. At the latter’s command the company faced right and marched to the issue area.

The issue area consisted of about twenty wagons, for the nonce without horses, lined up in two rows of ten, fairly widely spaced. From the first wagon, each man was handed a knapsack—a rather crude, khaki-colored canvas thing with no frame, uncushioned straps, and a simple tie at the top to close it—plus a smaller cloth bag of similar color.

“As you get your equipment, either put it on or stuff it in those,” a quartermaster noncom advised.

The second wagon was piled high with hundreds of furazhka, the visored, peaked caps worn almost universally by the Imperial Army, and papakhas, which were pile winter caps, plus “Adrians,” steel helmets of a French design.

Mokrenko and Panfil expected to be given any old hat, with instructions to trade it off or make it fit for himself. Instead, the clerk looked them over, went to one part of the wagon behind him, and then another, returning with two furazhka that actually fit fairly well. The pile caps he passed over were big, but that was to be expected and preferred. A French-manufactured helmet followed.

“You’ll have to remove the French insignia yourselves,” the clerk said. “No, we don’t have Imperial insignia for the helmets. Supposedly someone is soon going to be working on it.”

The third wagon was fronted by a pile of shirts and tunics. “Find two shirts that fit,” said the man on that station. “Big is all right; make sure they’re not too small. The tunics are probably going to be a little big, anyway, given how much weight you’ve lost.”

And so it went, through trousers, two each—“No belts for your trousers; no suspenders, either. Take a piece of rope and a bit of wood and make your own!”—through boots, “sapogi” in Russian, two pairs of foot wrapping, called “portyanki,” and a heavy overcoat of a better manufacture than the Imperial Army had seen since 1915 or so.

Each man got an adjustable leather belt with shoulder straps and cartridges boxes for it, plus a shovel to hang from it. A Zelinski model gas mask was hung over one shoulder and a bread bag, a kind of a loose purse for men, over the other. Into the knapsack also went a pair of decent lined leather mittens. One canteen was given to each man, as was a small pot for boiling water and a bayonet without scabbard. Tent section, rope, poles, and pegs all went into the knapsack as did a small notebook, towel, toiletry bag, tin of fat for waterproofing boots, boot brush, and a little uniform repair kit with needle, thread, buttons, plus this, that, and whatnot. Three wool blankets—none of them of the best by this stage of the war—plus a ground cloth completed the ensemble.

Interlude

Tatiana: Old Flames

Before the revolution—rather, the revolutions—the three of us, Mama, my sister Olga, and I, worked in a military hospital. Olga, as it turned out, just couldn’t deal with the suffering, the stress, or the sheer physical work involved. I think she might have been able to take on any two of those; all three, together, were just too much for her. She was put to work handling administrative and clerical matters, which suited her a good deal better than changing bandages and emptying bedpans… or holding the hands of the dying.

Me, I just wanted to help. No… no, that’s not quite right, nor quite honest; I wanted to feel, by helping, and for the first time in my life, like an active, useful human being. They still tried to shield me from it, of course, and it took a good deal to convince everyone that I was serious about taking on duties at least as onerous as anyone else had.

I flirted with most of the patients, at least a little. Why? Why because I thought morale was critical to healing, and it wouldn’t hurt their morale any for me to flirt with them.

One was more than flirting, however. There was an officer of the Guards—everyone knew who he was so I won’t mention the name—already well decorated for bravery and advanced beyond what his years would suggest. He was fairly short, not much taller than I was, a little dark, and with maybe some Tatar in his ancestry. It was his grandfather, I think, who had been the first one ennobled in his ancestry, so marriage was out of the question.

Still, a girl could dream, couldn’t she? Me, I dreamt of a happy life, somewhere in the country, with cows and chickens and a brood of children, his children and mine, and hopefully none of them bleeders like my poor, dear, utterly frustrated brother.

Maybe if we could both have run off to America…

Chapter Six

Camp Budapest, Bulgaria

They had Russian machine guns, rifles and uniforms, Amerikanski pistols and light machine guns, and French light cannon.

It wasn’t even twenty-one hundred hours and already the waxing crescent of the setting moon hung low in the west. There were no electric lights, and it was far too dark to risk the small parts of the various special weapons by detailed familiarization of the troops with them at night. There was a surplus of talent as far as the heavy machine guns went. The same could not be said for either the Lewis guns or the 37mm infantry cannon. Still time was short and what there was of it had to be used,

The only man in the battalion who knew anything about the Lewis guns was Sergeant Major Nenonen, and nobody knew anything about the 37mm jobs.

Fortunately, Corporal Panfil could read French, while the Germans had thoughtfully provided a French manual with the guns. Right now, Panfil, with a gun next to his pallet, the wheels and caisson having been left outside, pored over that manual by the light of a flickering candle, his officer, Lieutenant Federov looking from over his shoulder and trying to puzzle through the instructions, too, while Feldfebel Yahonov and Sergeant Oblonsky manipulated the gun by the instructions given.

“So what happens if you miss?” Yahonov asked.

“It gives… mmm… two methods. The simpler one says…”—Panfil scanned over the text of the pertinent section, then translated the gist of it—“to keep your hands away from the traversing and elevating mechanisms—in other words, leave the gun alone—and then move the deflection and elevation knobs to put the telescopic sight on the explosion,” Panfil patiently explained. “Then, without touching the sight’s controls, to use the elevation and traversing wheels to get your sight picture back on the target.”

“Deflection?”

“Right and left, but reversed.”

“Let me think about that for a bit,” Yahonov said, working out the process in his mind. “Ooooh, I see; what’s happening there is that it turns into an instant bore sighting or zero, while adjusting for atmosphere, wind, and weather, yes?”

“Must be,” Panfil agreed.

Daniil had just finished explaining what he suspected would be needed for a landing area. Lieutenant Turgenev, a former Guards Cavalry officer, detailed to intelligence, and currently leading a small detachment of mixed cavalry and Cossacks, furiously copied down nearly every word.

“All that comes,” Kostyshakov said, “from a couple of articles I read while at Fort IX. After I meet with the captain of the airship I might have better guidance. Also, it ought to be within one to two days’ march from wherever you find the Romanovs. Now come back tomorrow, noontime, with a tentative plan,” Daniil added.

“You’re too generous with time, sir,” the lieutenant said sardonically.

Daniil made a dismissive get-thee-forth gesture with his hand and fingers. “There isn’t a lot of time, Turgenev, and less for you than for us. So quit wasting what we have and get to work.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

The young horse soldier turned intelligence officer let himself out of the crude wooden shack.

As with Panfil’s tent, a candle, too, burned in Kostyshakov’s lone hut. Like Panfil’s, lacking fat, the candle’s light was poor. The war’s made everything decrepit and decayed, he thought. I think, unless we’re both very lucky and fight very hard, that someday people will look at this war the way we see the war between the Spartans and the Athenians; the great calamity that ruined our civilization beyond redemption.

Still, so far, so good, Daniil also thought. We’ve got arms and equipment, ammunition, men, food… even horses and mules are supposedly coming in the morning. We’ve got an organization—that went better than expected, probably in good part because of Sergeant Major Blagov—and a plan of sorts for changing it to what we really need, when we really need it.

But I wish I had some better idea of how to train for this, some better idea of who to select for the Grenadier Company than, “He who does good.” We’ve got almost no facilities. The men are in rotten shape but they’re still going to have to build what we need.

Which is what, exactly? Well… we need a range for the machine guns and cannon. The same range will also do for the snipers, once we select them. Doesn’t need to be much, about a tenth of a verst by a verst and a half will do. Hmmm… maybe we can dig positions and run wire out for field telephones, then put men in strong trench positions to raise and lower targets, as we tell them to via the field phones. I wonder if Romeyko has phones and wire stashed away with his horde. If not, I wonder if he can get some.

Yes, if he can, that should be good for the Maxims, the Lewis guns, and the snipers. I think maybe we just put out a bunch of targets for the 37mm cannon, and have no men down range when we use those. So… okay, different days for automatic and cannon fire… different days for the snipers, too, I suppose.

Then we need a range for the grenades. We have enough to expend two or even three for every rifleman, convert a couple of hundred to flash powder, and still have enough explosive ones for the mission. Hmmm… maybe have each man throw one a few dozen times before they pull the ignition cord. Will they stand up to that much abuse? Better ask the Germans how they do it. Wooden mockups, maybe? Hmmm… wooden mockups with a lead core?

We’re going to need a good rifle range, call it six tenths of a verst by… oh… a tenth or a twentieth, maybe. But how do we set up targets and give feedback?

Daniil spared a glance at the rough lumber of his shack and thought, No way we’ll get enough finely cut lumber for the usual frames. Maybe we can use smaller targets, and have men hold them up on rough poles, bringing the poles down to mark the targets. T-poles, I think.

“Targets? Targets?” he wondered, aloud. “Can we get targets from the Germans?”

We’ll have to dig in the men down range a good eight or ten feet. Those wretched little shovels won’t do. Ask the Germans—I am growing so tired of that phrase—for real picks and shovels, a hundred or so, each.

Ah, but then finally, we’re going to need a place to train for and rehearse the actual mission which is a rescue. And that… I am not sure. Maybe the sergeant major will have some idea.

Camp Budapest

“Maybe we could dig a house—a complex building, or the spacing of one—down into the ground,” said Blagov, scratching at his half right ear, to Kostyshakov. “You know, open top so we can see and evaluate the men going through the drill. We could even close it off, sometimes, for them to practice it in the dark with just those cylindric li— Dear God! What are those?”

Blagov pointed at his first glimpse of the miserable collection of mule- and horseflesh shambling though the gate of the camp.

“Damn… just damn,” Daniil shook his head in despair.

There were only eight horses and two dozen mules, which was substantially less than Kostyshakov had asked for. Far worse than the numbers, though, was that these animals looked more than half-starved, with ribs showing more or less plainly, backbone sticking up like an irregular rail, hips outlined, and the withers very sloped.

“I think they call them ‘horses’ and ‘mules,’ Sergeant Major,” Daniil said. “Though I am not sure why.”

“How important are they to the mission?”

Kostyshakov thought for a bit. “Well, a half dozen or so of the horses are very important, and become so soon. There’s some time for the rest to heal up… if they can heal.”

“Kaledin,” was Blagov’s instant judgment. “He’s another Cossack, probably could ride before he could walk. I doubt we have a better candidate for getting them back in some kind of shape. If they can be brought back to some kind of shape.”

“Okay, so assign him to the quartermaster and—”

“He’s already assigned,” Blagov interrupted, “to the reconnaissance team heading into the interior to pin down and report on the royal family. And those have to leave within, as you said, sir, about a week.”

“Well, I’m supposed to meet with Turgenev at noon, Sergeant Major. Could you send someone to advise him to bring the entire detachment? Thank you.”

“Effective immediately, Lieutenant, Sergeant Kaledin is detailed to the quartermaster to try to get those horses and mules into shape.”

“Bu’… bu’… bu’?”

“No arguments. Kaledin, go now. Some of those animals look to be about to keel over. The sooner you start getting them in shape the more likely some of them will survive.”

“Are they that bad, sir?” Kaledin asked, dark eyes going sad.

“Words fail,” Kostyshakov said.

“I see, sir. Yes, sir, I’m on my way.”

After the sergeant had departed, Kostyshakov demanded, “What’s your plan, Turgenev?”

“Step one, sir,” the lieutenant said, “is that someone is going to have to give me a great deal of money, and probably a mix of it. If we each had a string of the best horses in the world, the distance is on the order of four thousand versts. That’s four months of travel…”

“You don’t have four months.”

“Yes, sir, I know. So we’re going to have to rely mainly on less secure, certainly less secret, but faster means. That means we walk to Kermen with everything we can carry and maybe grub a lift for the rest of the baggage from Taenzler. From there we take a train to as near to Burgos, that Black Sea port, as we can get. Now Burgos, what with the war, isn’t too bloody likely to have continuing ferry service to, say, Rostov-on-Don. There will probably be smugglers galore, though, who would risk it.”

Kostyshakov nodded, “They’re likely as not to be pirates, too. That means you go armed, but also with arms that can be hidden, knives and pistols, both. And that means practice.” He turned his attention to the five men remaining after Kaledin’s departure. “Any of you familiar with pistols?”

“Familiar, sir, but that’s all, all for any of us except the lieutenant,” answered the next senior man, Mokrenko.

“The men know their way around a lance or a carbine a lot better than they do a pistol,” added Turgenev.

“Right… add to your plan one day of pistol familiarization. Maybe two.”

“Yes, sir,” said Turgenev, continuing then with, “From Rostov-on-Don we try to take a riverboat if we can, or charter one, if we can’t, or buy decent horses if we can’t do either. The rail may be running, too, though I have my doubts. If none of those are possible, then there’s no way to complete our mission in time.”

Wordlessly, Daniil just nodded his understanding. One of those, he silently agreed, ought be available.

“I think we’ll be able to go mostly by river, though, and am planning on it. We follow the Don as far as possible to get as near as we can to Tsaritsyn. At that point, we likely must buy horses to get to the Volga. That’s the area where the Reds’ control is limited, which must mean intermittent rail connections, at best.

“That means, once again, we’ll need money, though we’ll probably have to sell the horses for anything we can get at Tsaritsyn.

“We can follow the Volga to Samara, and then take a train to Yekaterinburg and then onward to Tyumen. From there, once again, we must buy horses to get to Tobolsk. Yes, we could try to catch the river boat to Tobolsk, but it would be better to arrive as unseen as possible. For that matter,” the lieutenant paused to scratch his head, “even if we could go by river, we can’t count on that river not being totally frozen… so… horses.”

“The Germans tell me,” Daniil said, “that they believe the family is in Tobolsk. But I figure we can only be sure that the royal family will be in one of those two places, Yekaterinburg or Tobolsk. Timeline? And add a couple of days at Yekaterinburg to see if they’re there or coming there.”

Turgenev consulted his notebook, making a couple of quick corrections. “Here to Kermen, about one day. Kermen to Burgos, maybe two. Burgos to Rostov-on-Don… I’m a cynic and a skeptic; five, minimum. If we can get a steamboat up the Don, three days, plus three to buy new horses and ride to Tsaritsyn. If not, probably nineteen. Then five days by boat to Samara. Rail to Yekaterinburg, logic says one but cynicism tells me two. Then three days in Yekaterinburg. Then to Tyumen, call it one day. Buy horses and race to Tobolsk, maybe six.

“That’s thirty-one days to Tobolsk, if we’re lucky. Fifty, if we are not.

“As to how we’re to tell you where they are, I have no clue. I asked around to see if anyone knew anything about carrier pigeons. Turns out Lieutenant Antopov, in Second Company, used to race them. He says they’re good, the best of them, for maybe two thousand versts. This is twice that. We need something else. I asked the signal officer, Lieutenant Dragonov. No, sir, radio won’t work. Oh, we could, maybe, if we used a rail line to act as an antenna, send a message out. Maybe even receive one. But, in the first place, they’re too big to carry while, in the second place, if the Reds or the anarchists see us with a radio they’ll just stand us against a wall and shoot us.”

“I agree,” Daniil said. “What’s your monetary breakdown?”

“Six men for two months, at twenty rubles a day, seven thousand three hundred, call it. That’s not generous, by the way; we’ll not be staying in fine hotels nor eating in expensive restaurants.

“Train and boat passage… I think we’d be making no mistake if we budgeted two thousand per man. Horses? Two horses per man, plus saddlery, if we can get a boat to Komovka on the Don, but four per man if we cannot. Four per man from Tyumen to Tobolsk, plus saddlery. I confess, I have no idea whatsoever what a horse may cost back home now, in paper rubles, let alone forty-eight of them, plus the saddlery. I think we’ll be in the one thousand to fifteen hundred range if we can get gold rubles. That would be fifty to seventy-five thousand rubles, most of it in gold. But then there’ll be the tips and bribes. Some we’ll get back when we sell them and some of them, at least, should still be alive at the end of the mission for sale… unless the Bolsheviks notice them and confiscate them.”

“We’ll not count on the Bolsheviks’ appreciation for the sanctity of private property,” Daniil said. “I’ll ask the Germans for a round hundred thousand rubles. They’ll probably want receipts when this is all over, as well as receipts for what you got when you sold them. Thorough people, the Germans.”

“Yes… well, sir, I’ll try. But any receipts that tend to show how far we’ve travelled are also a death sentence if the Bolsheviks catch us, or even notice us enough for a search.”

“No receipts,” Kostyshakov said, instantly.

“But we’re still stuck with how to even let you know once we’ve found the tsar and his family.”

“Let’s go find Major Brinkmann.”

Brinkmann tapped his cane as if impatient. After several taps, he reluctantly said, “There… is a… way, but… come with me.”

A bare ten minutes later in his own quarters, he explained. “We maintain a small office in neutral Sweden, in Stockholm. It’s in the guise of a trading firm. Send them a telegram; they’ll forward it to us. Well… they will after they’re told that certain telegrams from Russia are to come to our office. But you’re going to need a code book, a set of prearranged terms, that are neither obvious nor suspicious. Best, I think, if it’s simple enough to be memorized, though that’s asking for a lot. And your signal to the Stockholm office… maybe a particular trading firm, yourselves. Furs?”

“Furs make sense,” Kostyshakov agreed. “So the Pan-Siberian Import-Export Company?”

“Works for me,” said Lieutenant Turgenev.

Horse Paddock, Camp Budapest

Never going to work, thought Kaledin, gazing upon the sorry spectacle of equines listlessly munching on thin, frozen grass. Some lacked even the energy for that, but just stood there, blankly.

The Cossack sergeant wasn’t alone; one of the cooks, Private Meisner, not needed by the German mess section, accompanied him. This was a private who was, at least, used to horses since mess trailers—Gulaschkanonen, in German—all used horses to get around.

These poor beasties, about half of them, already have two hooves in the grave… or the sausage factory, as the case may be. Triage? Look for the ones who have a chance and slaughter the rest to feed the troops? I don’t see a better way but… I love horses and have a soft spot for mules. I don’t have it in my heart to kill them until there’s no choice left.

I’ll do my best and let God decide for me.

Now, for step one, let’s look them over closely. I count… one, two, five, eleven, twenty….thirty-one? There were supposed to be thirty-two, eight horses and twenty-four mules… I count… seven horses only.

Kaledin walked to his right, around the clump of equines and forest of legs. He was less than a quarter of the way around it when he spotted the bay, lying on one side. He didn’t want to spook the animals by running, but picked up his pace until he was close enough to see that the supine horse wasn’t even breathing.

The sergeant stopped and crossed himself, orthodox fashion, up, down, then right to left. Then he walked over to the horse and took one knee, reaching out to stroke its now cold forehead.

“Poor thing,” he muttered, “poor abused thing.” Kaledin felt a tear forming and dashed it away. In truth, he liked horses a lot better than he liked most people.

I’ll have someone come for you in a bit, old friend. I am sorry, but I cannot guarantee you will not end up in a pot or as sausage. Yes, as a matter fact we are that hard up at the moment. Yes, I know it is also somewhat risky.

“Meisner?”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Go to the mess, ask what they want to do with the dead horse. If nothing, notify the quartermaster to send someone to take it away and bury it.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Kaledin then stood, pulled a small notebook and pencil from a pocket, and went to the first horse to be examined. Chestnut gelding, he wrote, about sixteen hands high. Shod. Poorly. Probably Oldenburger. Neck, discernible. Withers, faintly discernible. Spine, can’t see individual vertebrae. Tailhead, prominent, hip rounded, discernible. Ribs, prominent. Shoulder, discernible. Prognosis, fairly poor but possible.

From that one he studied another horse, also a likely Oldenberger, and then three mules in succession. Doing the entire herd took almost until sundown. Before that, Meisner had returned, as well as a group from one of the rifle companies to drag the dead horse away.

“They need food,” Kaledin told the boy. “They need it desperately, but they’re too far gone down the road to starvation to eat much at any one time. Overfeeding will kill them as surely as no food would.” He pointed, “You see that chestnut one? We’ll start with him. Get him a mix of lucerne and hay, then add to it about a little bit of oats, just a few ounces, a handful or so. Put it in a feed bag and hang it for the poor thing…”

“How much, Sergeant?”

“About two funt, no more, in total. We’ll refill when they’ve had a chance to digest fully. It’s going to be nearly an all day, all night job for us, boy, for at least the next two weeks. For the mules make it about a fifth less. And when we’re finished, we go collect blankets from the quartermaster.”

The men digging the horse’s grave weren’t the only ones digging. The entire Second Company, for now armed with nothing but their miserable little entrenching tools, worried at the ground at one end of a hollow field. About six hundred meters distant, the bulk of Third Company pounded in numbered stakes with rocks, dug individual pits, and filled some sandbags, three or four for each pit.

Sergeant Major Blagov and two of the company first sergeants paced the line, encouraging the men and occasionally enlightening them with a firm boot. From a deep and long draw, a few hundred meters to the east, came the sound of steady firing as a team of long service noncoms confirmed or fixed the zeroes of all the rifles; that, or rejected them as unserviceable.

It was slow work, digging, what with the ground being so frozen. At least, though, it was warm work, the frozen-breath pine trees sprouting from each man’s face every few seconds told of a bitter temperature, indeed.

Meanwhile, in a small copse of woods to the north, everyone from First Company, not otherwise engaged, chopped at trees to bring down some lumber. There were no decent saws, yet, so, again, the entrenching tools had to do. There were also no horses available, as all but three of the ones who had pulled the wagons from the train station had been returned, the three being two for Romeyko’s operations and one horse and one wagon, assigned to the mess. When they did manage to fell a tree, the heavy machine gun section became the beasts of burden and hauled the trunk to the wood-splitting area near the target line where the light cannon section split them into useful poles.

“They’re coming; they’re coming!” Romeyko had promised.

Going to take days, thought Sergeant Major Blagov. Fucking days. And we would be done by noon tomorrow if we had the proper tools!

Brest-Litovsk

Hoffmann looked over the telegram sent to him by Brinkmann.

One hundred thousand rubles in gold, they want? Ten thousand ten ruble coins? Almost ninety kilograms of gold? I don’t think so. I could give them twice as much, three times as much, in captured Russian Imperial currency. We’ve captured pay chests enough to cover that much. But the coins, the actual article? In that quantity? Not a chance.

For one thing, that much in coinage would raise suspicions and attract attentions I do not want or need. I am still on Ludendorff’s and Hindenburg’s persona non grata list. They’d object to anything I do now, out of sheer spite. Thank God the kaiser hasn’t told them anything about our little project.

He summoned an aide. “Telegram Major Brinkmann, at Camp Budapest, ‘Ober Ost will provide six thousand rubles in coin. The rest must be paper currency. I can increase the currency, even substantially, if needed and wanted.’”

Camp Budapest

Five Russians showed up at Feldwebel Taenzler’s kitchen. None of them was a Pole. Taenzler knew, distantly, that a lot of Russian ranks had been taken from German practice. Job one, find out who’s senior.

“Feldwebel?” Taenzler asked, looking from Russian to Russian. “Feldwebel?” The Russian pronunciation was close enough. “Wachtmeister?” This also produced no response.

“Unteroffizier?”

One Russian raised his hand, answering, “Ilyin, Mladshy Unter-ofitzer.”

“Close enough,” said Taenzler. “Ilyin Mladshy,” the German said, gently, thinking the latter was the surname, “let me show you our kitchen…”

The sergeant major still had all three existing companies out digging, less three men armed with bayoneted rifles who wandered the camp as guards, and the two would-be deserters from a couple of days prior who were living in an open pit they’d had to dig themselves, said pit covered with a lattice of tied logs.

The guards were only there to prevent pilfering. The exterior of the camp was guarded by Germans manning machine guns in towers, while the labor parties and the range area had a double ring of armed Germans and, outside of that, armed Bulgarians to keep the prying eyes of the local populace away.

Those two detainees were also on bread and water. A couple of the worst blankets had been tossed to them, as daily were tossed their pound and a half of bread, no Schmaltz, and a canteen of water.

The three companies were out, but the sergeant major remained behind for the nonce. Right now he stood over the two in the hole and asked, genially, with a brilliant smile, “How’s the food down there, boys?”

“Oh, it’s a feast, Sergeant Major, a veritable feast.”

The voice had an accent, enough so that Blagov asked for names.

“Kowalski, Sergeant Major,” answered one.

“Chmura,” said the other.

“Poles, then?”

“Yes, we’re Polish,” said Chmura.

“Not especially common in a Guards regiment,” Blagov observed, fingering his half missing ear. “What twists of fate brought you to the Guards, and what depths of idiocy caused to you try to desert? You’re lucky we didn’t just shoot you, you know.”

“We weren’t trying to desert, Sergeant Major,” answered Kowalski. “We thought we were escaping.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Sorry to disagree, Sergeant Major, but, yes, it does. When we ducked under the train we’d just come out of rail accommodations for prisoners. The only armed men we saw were Germans. As far as we knew we were still prisoners and had a duty to try to escape.”

“Didn’t your officers and noncoms tell you not to?”

“The world is full of collaborators, Sergeant Major,” said Chmura, “and has no dearth of traitors.”

Well, that much is true, thought Blagov, thinking back to Dragomirov and any number of other rejects. And, then, too, we hadn’t given anyone but the officers and senior noncoms, and not all of those, any idea of what was going on. Maybe that was a mistake.

“I don’t trust you two; let’s be clear on that,” said Blagov. “Even so, I’m going to give you a chance to prove me and the commander wrong.”

A single sharp whistle from the sergeant major brought the three camp guards at a run. “Lift the cage off them,” Blagov said.

“You’re not making a mistake, Sergeant Major,” said Kowalski.

Under the circumstances, it wouldn’t do to leave two people living under a cloud, but sharing a common language and culture, together.

“Either of you speak any German?” asked Blagov.

Only Chmura raised a hand. “Mine’s fair, Sergeant Major. Never as good as my Russian, though.”

Why didn’t I already know this? Blagov asked himself. If the commander needs to know something about the men of the battalion it is my duty to have the answer right there.

That was a case of the sergeant major being too hard on himself; this unit had just come into being, so of course he didn’t know every man.

“Go report to the mess. Look for Junior Sergeant Ilyin. You, Kowalski, come with me.”

Without another word, Blagov set off briskly for the front gate, on his way to the range area. He suddenly stopped. Shit, neither of them have drawn any uniforms or equipment.

“Halt!” Blagov barked. “Instead, come with me. We’ll set you up with the quartermasters before you go to work. And get those blankets you’ve been using.”

“Hoffmann says paper, with a little gold, not all gold,” Brinkmann informed Kostyshakov and Turgenev, north of the camp, not far from where the battalion dug and cut, making their known distance range. “Six thousand rubles in gold coin. I complained but, from the wording, I think he’s going to be inflexible on this, and probably doesn’t really have any choice.”

“How much paper, Major?” Turgenev asked.

“Now that’s interesting; he’s willing to go much higher on the paper to make up for the loss of gold. We might be able to double the request, or even more.”

“If serious inflation kicks off, where horses are concerned, we might not be able to carry enough paper. If it doesn’t, we might have too much.”

“Where did it come from?” Kostyshakov asked of Brinkmann.

“Probably captured pay chests. It’ll be good, honest paper, at least, not counterfeit.”

“Double it?” Kostyshakov asked Turgenev. “A mix of high, medium, and low value notes?”

“Do we have any choice?”

“No,” said both Kostyshakov and Brinkmann, simultaneously.

“Then I guess it will have to be.” The junior officer grew contemplative for a moment, then observed, “Maybe we’d be well advised to rob a bank.”

“Better to rob a Bulgarian bank,” said the German, “before you leave Burgos. You would not, after all, want the Russian police and the Reds to take special notice of your presence in Russia.”

“Maybe,” agreed Turgenev. “But make our getaway on what, those old nags your army sent us?”

Another horse had died in the night, quite despite the careful feeding and quite despite the blankets Kaledin and Meisner draped over them.

On the plus side, the food had given each of the equines something to crap out, which also gave Kaledin the chance to inspect the droppings for worms.

Nothing, which is good, but in a week or ten days, if we can put a little meat on their bones, I think a modest solution of turpentine in their water would be to the good, in case they’ve got a residual infection of the evil little bastards.

“Hey, Meisner?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Trot over to the quartermaster’s office and ask for some turpentine, a vedro of it. Tell them it isn’t immediate, but in a week would be good.”

Quartermaster’s Office, Camp Budapest

Frustrating, thought Captain Romeyko, purely frustrating. Hmmm… well maybe not all that pure, since there’s an element of humiliation to the matter, as well.

A whitewashed board was affixed to one wall on Romeyko’s small office. The board was divided into three sections with two hand-drawn charcoal lines. The left side was labeled, “ROUTINE,” and the other, “SPECIAL.” In between was lettered, “TRANSPORTATION.”

Under ROUTINE were such matters as “Daily ration draw,” and “Ammunition type and issue.” On the right, under SPECIAL, were written, “Machine Pistols,” “Pioneer tools,” “Horse blankets,” “Blacksmith,” “Money,” “Field telephones,” “wire,” and about two dozen other items that had, so far, proven beyond Romeyko’s ability to fix or acquire. A couple of items were crossed out, including “Saddlery,” “Radio,” and “Carrier Pigeon.” One big glaring need was, “Map of Rodina.” As it turned out, Brinkmann had to send to the General Staff office, in Berlin, to get a usable scale map of western Russia, up to and including Tobolsk. Even Ober Ost’s only went as far as the general line of the Volga.

Very few of the items on this list had an expected arrival date.

Somewhere, mused Romeyko, somewhere, possibly in Warsaw, there is a repository of captured maps where, if they looked, the Huns would find maps of Russia going all the way to Vladivostok. No doubt it is all well filed and documented, but we—in our miserable state—just don’t know who to ask.

In the middle column, conversely, there was almost nothing written, just the daily, “Wagons to draw rations for seven hundred”—okay, OKAY; so Taenzler is drawing some extra and I’m helping? So sue us!—“from the railhead.”

Even as he thought it, from outside came the creak of wagon wheels, leaving the camp on their way to the railhead.

Interlude

Tatiana: Mock battle

I followed the clanking sounds down the hall to discover Alexei and Kolya in mock battle. They had taken some branches from the wood pile and fashioned them into daggers and guns. They were well armed, with extra branches tucked into the belt of their coats and one in each hand.

I was so thrilled to see them happy and playing, to see Alexei up and about, that I didn’t tell them to take their noise and chaos back outside.

Kolya was Andrey Derevenko’s, the doctor’s, son. Boys being what they are, Alexei behaved for Derevenko, Nagorny, his sailor-guard, and Papa whereas he ignored Mama, Olga, and me.

Taller than Alexei, Kolya had been my brother’s playmate and best friend for years. He was as loyal a friend as Alexei could ask for.

Kolya thrust the bent stick in his right hand forward, aiming for Alexei’s belly. Alexei jumped out of reach just in time and hit the wall with his back. I winced, but they continued their back and forth, along with accompanying grunts and yelps.

Joy and Anastasia’s Cavalier, Jimmy, bounced happily around them, their silky hair still damp with melting snow.

Alexei got the upper hand and drove Kolya into the salon. Kolya staggered backward, lost his footing, and landed on his back. He rolled away just in time to avoid being poked with the sharp end of a branch but Alexei pointed the bent stick serving as a gun at him and made shooting sounds.

“You’re dead,” Alexei said triumphantly as the two spaniels swarmed Kolya and smothered him with kisses.

Kolya’s giggling only encouraged the dogs, as if they wanted more of that happy, tinkling sound.

“Tatiannnaaaa…”

We all turned towards the source of the sound. From underneath a pile of too-big clothes, Maria rose to glare at us, her hands on her plump hips. Anastasia was likewise decked out in one of Papa’s shirts and hats. His wide, leather belt looped around her waist.

“We’re rehearsing,” Anastasia piped in.

Ah, the play. My sisters were putting on another play.

“French or English?” I asked.

Kolya pushed himself up from the floor and straightened his coat.

“English, of course,” Maria said. “It’s our room for ten more minutes.”

Alexei and Kolya shrugged. They resumed their battle over the girls’ protests and eventually yielded the room back to them when the shrieking got too loud.

That image of Alexei standing over Kolya with his mock-gun stayed with me the rest of the day. It morphed from a boy at play to a man at war, a man that I feared we would never see. Either a fall or a cut would get him. And no matter how much he played at being a real boy, he wasn’t and could never be.

His world was so unfair, so foul, so unkind. It denied this brave, bright boy even the simplest pleasures by making the hemophilia hang over everything he did, no matter how small, how normal.

My brother deserved better. I had seen him put on a brave front so many times. How, for Mama’s sake, he’d let Rasputin pray over him. Yet there had been a keen intellect in Alexei’s feverish eyes. One that told me that he wasn’t taken in by the starets, one that told me that even in the throes of pain and fever, he still cared about Mama enough to pretend.

One that told me that my brother, whatever his faults, would have made a great tsar.

Chapter Seven

Range A (Rifle), Near Camp Budapest

First and Third Companies were still hard at work putting in a range for the heavy and light machine guns, as well as the 37mm cannon. Their little spades could be heard, faintly, chink-chink-chinking away, from off in the distance.

Today was expected to be a great day. Today was Number Two Company’s first day on the rifle range.

There were firing points numbered One through Forty, running left to right. From the deep trench and berm, in and behind which the target handlers sheltered, toward the camp, there were roughly one- by two-meter raised dirt beds, at one hundred and fifty, three hundred, four hundred and fifty, and six hundred arshini[3] from the target line. At seven hundred and fifty arshini, instead of raised beds, the battalion had dug down to create positions for firing in a standing supported mode.

As with most rifles of the era, the Model 1891 was capable of engaging mass targets—columns of men moving in the open, for example—at greater than five hundred meters. Indeed, the sights of the models scrounged by Romeyko were marked for as far away as thirty-two hundred arshini, or roughly two thousand, two hundred meters.

Again, though, that was for mass targets, not individual ones. More practically, in the hands of a reasonably well-trained soldier, effective engagement of a man-sized target at five hundred meters was probably worth the effort… if the target were standing still and approximately upright. Engagement of a moving target was, for any rifleman, extremely problematic and kinetic success in such engagement largely a matter of luck.

Though every man in the battalion was literate and numerate, mistakes still happened with this kind of thing. Thus, rather than putting up just numbers at the target line, successive relays of men had tramped down the grass in straight lines to mark each firing lane.

Even so, thought Sergeant Major Blagov, some idiot is going to fire at his neighbor’s target. Always happens. I suppose it always will.

The weather was actually not bad, for Russians, hovering at about forty-three degrees, Fahrenheit, or about six degrees, Celsius. For someone from, say, Saint Peterburg, this was equal to a balmy, early April morn.

The field telephones and communications wire hadn’t yet shown up; they probably never would. Still, the noncoms had worked out a system of whistle, trumpet, and visual signals. Following the somewhat superfluous command of, “Set your sights for lowest possible range,” superfluous because, below thirteen hundred arshini, there was no setting, a whistle blast caused forty men in the long, deep shelter of the trench and the berm to raise forty targets on high.

The next command, by voice, came from the firing line. “Load one clip of five rounds!”

That was easy enough; all the ammunition broken down, so far, came in five round clips. These the troops inserted into a slot above the magazine and, with a single push, forced all five rounds down. The clips were then tossed, with bolts slammed and twisted home to chamber the first round.

There was no need to order the men to take the weapons off safe; their rifles hadn’t been on safe to begin with. Indeed, the Model 1891 could not be loaded with the weapon on safe.

“Commence firing!”

Camp Budapest

“‘The market here in fill-in-the-space is good’ will mean all the Romanovs are in one place, whichever one we put in. But what if they’ve been split up?” asked Lieutenant Turgenev. “How do we account for that?”

“Maybe value and sex,” suggested Mokrenko. “We use the most valuable, the sable, as a stand in for the tsar. After that, the fox for the tsarina. After that, the blue fox for the grand duchesses and the polar fox for the tsarevich.”

“I’m not sure that’s the actual relative value,” said Turgenev.

“Maybe better if it isn’t,” Mokrenko admitted. “But there’s a problem; nobody is going to go to the expense of sending a wire to Sweden for one polar fox. It’s inherently suspicious.

“So maybe,” he continued, “we just add zeroes to the actual number, as many as we need to be something besides suspicious. So… one hundred is just one. Four hundred blue fox are just the four grand duchesses. So are four thousand, if we find the market is big enough to justify that.

“That works. Write that down, Goat.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Corporal Koslov, whose surname, in fact, meant goat.

“We need codes for places, too,” said Turgenev. “One for each stop on our itinerary. And then a way to designate different places.”

“Yes,” Mokrenko agreed. “We might, after all, find that they’ve been sent somewhere completely different than we expect.”

“North and south from a known point?” Turgenev suggested. “Also east and west? How about by money? North is rubles; south is kopeks. What for east and west, though?”

That took some thought. Finally Koslov suggested, “America is east; England is west. Murmansk is north. Odessa is south. We make it a two sentence effort—no, three—for each part of the direction. The first establishes a known point, whichever it is. The second, couched as being a place to send furs to, establishes a direction. The third the distance from that point in that direction. Then we do it again for the other cardinal direction.”

“Seems complex,” Turgenev said.

“Yes, sir, but we’re running out of time. We still have to familiarize on the pistols. We still have to get the money. And we still have to leave soon if we’re to get there on time. Besides, at least that way doesn’t obviously look like a coded message, which anything that gave coordinates would, and which anything that used an offset to give coordinates also would.”

“Directions and money it is. But let’s make it rubles and kopeks for each part, with rubles being ten versts and kopeks being one.”

Mokrenko nodded sagely. “I think that works, but we’re going to have to be very careful to make our figures nonsuspicious.”

“Yes, we are,” Turgenev agreed. “Now let’s start working on enemy situation.”

“Invert numbers,” said Mokrenko. “One hundred and twenty-three would mean three hundred and twenty-one, for example. At least that keeps us, well, usually, from sending a suspiciously accurate number. And, if they’re the same, one hundred and thirty-one red guards, for example, we don’t have to be that accurate; we call it two thirty-one, which means one hundred and thirty two, and is close enough to the truth.”

“Okay… I can see that, Sergeant. Then… squirrel for red soldiers… mmm… martens for machine guns… rabbits for cannon… excellent condition is excellent troops… not of the best is rabble… more coming is more coming.”

“Let me try something,” said Goat. “So we see two hundred and five red guards around the tsar and his family, who are all together. The guards have eighteen machine guns. There are no cannon. Five hundred more red guards are coming in a week or ten days.”

“The message, then, would read: ‘The market here is good STOP I was able to pick up five hundred and two squirrel pelts STOP only eighty-one martens available from my dealer STOP no rabbit fur and no word of any coming STOP supposed to be one hundred and five more rabbit available in a week or ten days STOP quality of what we have is not of the best STOP shall I wait… ’ meaning, ‘the Romanovs are here, guarded by two hundred and five guards now. They are all rabble. They have eighteen machine guns, no artillery and none coming, five hundred and one, which is close enough, more red guards supposedly en route and expected in a week or ten days.’”

Turgenev stroked his chin. “That ‘shall I wait?’ It reminds me that we need to be able to receive a message, too, once we’re in one place to stay. Hmmm… my stomach is rumbling. Let’s go eat lunch; we can work as we eat.”

Range A (Rifle), Near Camp Budapest

Feldwebel Taenzler cracked the whip above the horses, being most careful not to hit them. These beasts were in much better shape than the poor miserable things turned over to the Russian battalion, about a quarter of which, at this point, had died, though the rest were on their way to recovery.

Taenzler had given some thought to the notion of butchering the dead horses and mules but, given that they hadn’t necessarily died of starvation, he’d recommended against that and the Russian commander had listened to him.

The pair gave a little forward lurch, setting both the limber and the Gulaschkanone into forward motion.

Fired by wood, the Gulaschkanone was a modern marvel. The Kanone part of the name came from the smokepipe mounted to one corner. The Gulasch? Well, that was a simple one pot meat dish that the device could make in its large central pot, as it could make any kind of stew, in sufficient quantity for about a company. The marvelous part included that the thing could do so while on the move, plus that it had a means of spreading the heat evenly across the surface of the main cooker. This was a double boiler of sorts between the cooking pot and the firebox, containing glycerin. It also had a tub to heat tea or coffee, as well as a kind of griddle.

What it could not do was provide much in the way of variety, stew or pasta or boiled vegetables were pretty much it, and only one of those at a feeding.

It would have been woefully overtasked for feeding a small battalion, as it was now, but then Taenzler still had the kitchen at the camp, plus plenty of cooks now, what with the additional Russians. He planned on feeding the crew working on range building, then going back to refill the stew pot, to bring hot stew to the men using the rifle range. He’d been around the German Army long enough to know who could drop what they were doing to come and eat, and whom he would have to wait upon, as they finished absolutely necessary tasks to a schedule. The firers fit into the last category, the range builders into the former.

The Pole, Chmura, recently assigned to the kitchen had proven a big help. At his translation of Ilyin’s suggestion, Taenzler and the cooks had begun scraping the Schmaltz directly into the daily stew, where, by dipping, the Russians ate it with considerably more relish than they had when it was spread on bread.

Though it’s perhaps just as well that they don’t know that the fat comes from crushed and processed Maybugs. I wish I hadn’t made the mistake of asking, myself.

The newly building range wasn’t far. It seemed like mere minutes before Taenzler found himself pulling on the horses’ reins to bring the Gulaschkanone to a stop at a likely spot. Chmura stood and, in Russian, called for the men to drop their shovels, collect their mess tins, and line up for lunch.

They didn’t need to be told twice.

“You know,” said Corporal Goat, on the road to the mess tent, “we might be being too paranoid here. All businesses have secrets they don’t want to share. Maybe we’d look more suspicious, not less, if we didn’t put in something that actually looked like a secret we were trying to keep from competitors.”

“Maybe put in a substitution code, you think?” asked the lieutenant. “Use it for something…”

Turgenev stopped progress, as did the other two, at the edge of a company street. It was stop or risk being run over by sixteen men, racing along in two groups, each group hauling a 37mm infantry gun on wheels, plus a small ammunition caisson ahead of the gun. Turgenev recognized Lieutenant Federov running along ahead of the first gun, while a Feldfebel he didn’t know paced the second. The three stopped to watch the drill.

“I know nothing about artillery,” Turgenev said, “but I’ve always found the drill involved to be a fascinating dance.”

First, Federov stopped, made a show of looking through the binoculars hanging from his neck, then thrust out one arm in a different direction from the one they’d been racing toward. Swerving to avoid hitting the lieutenant, the four men pulling the caisson made a tight circle to the left, stopped the caisson, let the pole drop, opened the ammunition chest and extracted four containers of ammunition, each holding sixteen rounds of ammunition and weighing, per container, about fifteen kilograms.

The men hauling the gun stopped it before running their lieutenant over, then lowered the trails to the ground. One of the three then pulled the pin that retained the front leg of a tripod, knocked that leg down into position, then replaced the pin. This locked the leg in place while turning the gun’s carriage almost into a tripod. He then pulled another pin, thus detaching the gun’s soon to be tripod from the axle.

The other two members of the gun crew joined to lift the gun slightly off the axle. The first man then rolled axle and wheels out of the way, to the left.

They then lowered the entire gun assembly to the ground. With the pull of another pin, the gun and recoil cylinder were detached from the pintle. The squad leader helped one of the men get the eighty-eight pound tube and cylinder assembly onto his shoulder. The tripod and pintle assembly took a bit of effort as well, but was longer, better balanced, and inherently more stable. The remaining crewman was able to walk it up to the vertical position, then bend, put his shoulder into it, and stand upright on his own.

At that point, the second gun had come up abreast of the first and begun its dance, just slightly behind in time.

Turgenev heard Federov shout, “Follow me.” At that point, the gun crew trotted off, hauling gun and ammunition by main force, until the view of them was lost to the intervening tentage. The drill was fast enough that the second gun crew began trotting off about the time the first crew disappeared.

“Getting there,” said Mokrenko, “aren’t they?”

“Yes,” said Turgenev, “but for them as for us, time is a limited resource. Let’s go… and about that substitution code; are businesses that unsophisticated? A mere substitution code when actual, by God, money is on the line.”

“I confess, I don’t know,” Mokrenko replied.

“No clue,” added Goat.

“Let’s presume they’re not,” said Turgenev. “What else might be available to us?”

“Books,” said Goat, who was no dummy.

“Books?”

“Sure, sir; we get two copies of the same book, two exact copies. Any word we want is going to be found by a combination of a page number, a line number, and a word on the line number. Inefficient? I’m sure. But probably pretty secure.”

“What book?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe War and Peace?” Goat offered.

Mokrenko shook his head. “Sure has enough words… but we’re Russian, for God’s sake. Maybe some book less obvious? Something that isn’t by Tolstoy or Dostoevsky?”

“Lermontov?” suggested the lieutenant.

Goat offered, “Or maybe Chernychevsky?”

“Maybe better, because more obscure,” Turgenev said.

“You know,” said Mokrenko, “We might be well advised to find a telegraph station away from wherever we may find the royal family, and as far from their guards as possible.”

“Point,” agreed Turgenev.

“May not be possible,” said Corporal Koslov. “And there’s no train station or even a near passing line in Tobolsk, if they’re still there.”

“There will be a telegraph station in Tobolsk,” Turgenev said. “They’d never have brought the royal family there without a way to give the order to kill them in a hurry.”

“Also, ‘point,’” conceded Goat. “But if so, sir, there’s still not going to be another station in easy distance. What? Tyumen? Could we even get back to Tyumen in time to give the word.”

“No,” Turgenev said. “Well… six days? Maybe we could.”

“I wonder if we could get a man attached to us who knows telegraphy and a portable set for him that we could to tap into the wires?”

“Army math,” Turgenev reminded. “If you must have one of something to end with you must start with more than one.”

“Maybe so,” Mokrenko said, “but, under the circumstances, we’ll be lucky to get even one.”

Those words brought them to the mess where the lieutenant said, “No more talking until we’ve got our food and are on our way.”

“A minute and thirty-two seconds,” announced Federov to both gun crews, together, seated in a semi-circle on the ground between the pair of cannon. “A minute and thirty-two seconds from me designating a stopping point to both guns, side by side, ready to fire. You know, that’s not bad. I think maybe we’re ready for the real ammunition.”

“We’re ready, sir,” said the Feldfebel, “but the range is not. What we can do, though, is put the guns up, draw our rifles, and go knock off the requirement to qualify on the M1891s. That would be a good use of our time.”

Federov considered that for perhaps as much as three seconds, then said, “Let me know, Feldfebel, when everything is secured and we’re ready to march to the range.”

Machine gun and cannon range (Under Construction)

The men building the range were still eating when Kostyshakov suddenly appeared on the dirt road.

Both First and Third were commanded by senior lieutenants, Boris Baluyev for First and Georgy Lesh for Third. They ran up and reported to Kostyshakov as soon as they spied him.

Lesh spoke first. “Any word on the pioneer tools, sir? This would go so much faster if we had them. And we’ve still got to do the deep digging for the building clearing.”

“We need more lumber, too, sir,” added Baluyev, blowing aside facial hair as he spoke. “Trying to do this with entrenching tools is, well…” Baluyev took off his mittens to show blistered, bleeding hands. “See, sir? And the men? They’re in worse shape than we are. We’ve got to get those pioneer tools.”

“I know. Romeyko’s at wit’s end. The Germans are trying but nobody seems to have anything to spare. What they had to spare seems to have gone west with the divisions being shifted to face the French and British and, now, the Americans.”

Lesh scowled. “Hell, sir, we could make our own wooden handles if they’d just get us the metal parts!”

“Yes, sure. But we don’t have those either. Now quit complaining and show me what you have managed to do here.”

“Georgy has something special to show you, sir,” said Baluyev. “While he’s setting that up, I can walk you around.”

“Fine;” said Daniil, “go get your demonstration set up, Lesh.”

“Yes, sir.” With a hasty salute, Lesh trotted off.

Baluyev led Daniil to the firing line. The first thing Kostyshakov noticed was a set of large screens, at either end.

“What are those for?” he asked.

“The infantry guns, sir. Their tactics involve leaving their ammunition wagon, along with the mule or horse if they have one, in safe defilade. They manhandle the guns forward. But we don’t have anywhere with a suitable hill, nor any particularly good means of raising a hill. So we put these up to give a simulation of defilade. It’s not perfect because the guns can’t go over them but have to go around. But then, they’re supposed to go around.

“The heavy machine guns will do something similar. And we have two so both can be on the range at one time, or, when we don’t need both, either one has a choice of where to go. Or they can split sections.”

“Good thinking in general, though I’ll ask the Germans if there’s a place we can use that has actual hills or ridges, too.”

“I think Lieutenant Federov would appreciate that, sir.

“Now between the two screens, we’ve put in spots for five Lewis guns at a time.” Baluyev pointed down range, saying, “Note here, sir, that we haven’t put in anything for the Lewis guns to shoot at that’s closer than seven hundred and fifty arshin. For that they may as well use the rifle range, no?”

Kostyshakov considered that, then gestured a general agreement.

“What are you using for targets here?”

“You can’t generally see them, sir, because they’re camouflaged, but we have forty-five deep pits we’re digging. Men sheltering in those will raise targets on whistle command. Scoring, since those will be machine guns being scored, will be from the firing point rather than the target. That’s for the Lewis guns and the Maxims when shooting targets at range. We’re also building frames to put basic machine gun targets on, but I’m having trouble figuring out what to do about our traversing and elevating mechanisms, and our usual targets being in Russian, and the only ones available, the Germans’ targets, being in metric.”

“If you had heavy duty paper and paint or ink,” Kostyshakov asked, “oh, and rulers, I suppose, could you make our kind of targets from scratch?”

“Probably, sir, though we’d have to test them with our guns, too, to make sure they’re right.”

“I’ll see if we can squeeze that material out of the Germans.”

“That would be great, sir, and… I think… Lesh is ready to show you something.”

“Lead on.”

The trail blazed by Baluyev led first to the center of the range, and then half a mile downrange to near where most of the troops dug. Daniil saw nothing of any particular interest, even when they reached where Lesh stood, beaming. In the course of it, they passed four enlisted men, just waiting.

“You had something to show me, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir. But you’re almost standing on it.”

Daniil looked down and saw a neat board, about one arshin on a side, or perhaps slightly less. A wheel was attached to the center of the board, via a vertical spike. The heads of four more spikes had been driven through the board, holding it firmly to the ground. Rope—roughly half inch stuff—led off in both directions from the wheel, which seemed to have a cavity around the rim in which that small bit of the rope lay hidden.

“It came from one of the manuals we got from the Germans, the one for the 37mm cannon, sir.”

Beginning to lose patience now, Daniil exclaimed, “What came?”

“Oh, sorry, sir; moving targets for the machine guns and the light cannon.”

“I really don’t…”

“Watch me, sir.” With that, Lesh ran about one hundred meters toward the far firing line, to where the four previously idle troops waited. Bending, he and the men picked up the free end of the rope and began to walk to the south.

“Look over there, sir,” said Baluyev, pointing to a clump of bushes from behind which slid a small sled, moving at the same pace as Lesh and his detail of rope haulers. Suddenly the sled picked up speed as the haulers started to run.

“It’s just going to lock up on the…” Daniil shut up as the sled suddenly changed direction, still moving forward at a man’s running speed.

“How…?”

“There’s a knot in the rope, sir. It doesn’t fit the cavity around the wheel so the rope jumps out of it, then pulls the sled in the direction of the next wheel, which can be just about anywhere.”

“Fucking fascinating,” Daniil said, wonder in his voice. “I’ve never seen…”

“Neither had we, sir. Neither had Federov. But as soon as he saw it he also saw the potential and brought it to us.”

“Bloody marvelous. It’s impossible—well, it’s been impossible—to have moving targets before, at least as far as I’ve ever heard, but this… Oh, this is going to be so much fun!”

“Yes, sir.”

“How much did you have to do with this, Baluyev?”

“Less than half, sir.”

“Okay. How good are you with explosives?”

“Better than some, less good than others, sir.”

“Well. I have this project for you.”

Quartermaster’s Shop, Camp Budapest

Romeyko, the battalion quartermaster, looked over the task board on the wall. It was better prioritized now, to be sure, but it was also substantially more full. For every problem we solve, two more arise, Romeyko mentally groaned. And some of the problems are starting to appear unsolvable.

Looking over the task board, Romeyko saw:

He didn’t bother to look past those, but estimated, And still, two dozen important items after that. Different important items, yes, to some extent, but the number never shrinks.

He was also starting to feel the pinch of transportation, what with the need to haul ammunition to the rifle range—and more ranges, soon enough, as well as more and heavier ammunition—to having to feed the troops at several different locations, locations too far away from camp for them to walk back for lunch and dinner. The need to draw from the railhead hadn’t changed, but the need to disperse to where things would be used, while still drawing in firewood, too, since the coal was proving insufficient to the need, meant his three wagons still on loan were not enough.

Thank God for Taenzler.

Feldwebel Weber, who spent about half his time inside the wire, working with Romeyko, and half, outside, fighting with the system to try to get Romeyko the material the Russians needed, asked, “Something bothering you, Herr Hauptmann?”

Romeyko just pointed silently in the direction on which his eyes were already fixed.

“Well,” said Weber, “I have one good thing to report. One company set of pioneer tools has been found in the salvage depot at Kuestrin, along with a couple of dozen spares of various types. Also the other seven hundred thousand rounds of M1891 and belted Maxim ammunition has been secured. Should be here in about ten days, eight if we’re lucky.”

“Machine pistols?” Romeyko asked, hopes suddenly buoyed up by the news.

“They remain a problem,” answered Weber. “Major Brinkmann, bearing a requisition from Hoffmann, himself, has gone to Baden to try to get a portion of the first batch coming off the assembly line.”

Camp Budapest

There was a kind of constrained parade field in the center of the camp, surrounded on three sides by the off-white tents of the three companies, with a mix of tents, wooden buildings, and a dirt road, leading to the main gate, on the fourth side. In the middle of that field, under the supervision of Sergeant Major Nenonen, thirty men—thirty often cursing men, ten minimalist gun crews—went through the arcane but necessary ritual of disassembling and reassembling the frustratingly complex light machine guns.

Nenonen was the only man of the battalion with previous training on the Lewis, that having been a lengthy and difficult course run the prior year, not too far behind the then front. Nenonen was a veteran of the Finland Guard Regiment of the Imperial Guard.

“Step one,” Nenonen shouted, “is to remove the magazine. That’s that round thing on top for you, Private Durak. We do this by sticking a finger into the hole—you know how to stick a finger in a hole, don’t you, Corporal Blyad?—and push that little button, then lift.”

The troops tittered, neither man was actually addressed by his proper surname, but each had picked up a not necessarily complimentary nickname from his comrades, basically “dummy” and “fuck,” the latter for a corporal too much given to bragging about his amorous conquests.

“Now set the magazines down on your ground cloth.

“Next, your fingers on the bolt charging handle—that’s that little thing sticking out to the right—pull the trigger and ride the bolt forward.

“Now, flip your guns over so the trigger and pistol grip are away from you. See that little lever right where wood meets metal? Put your left hand in a reversed grip on the pistol grip, then use your right to twist the wooden stock towards you… that’s right; forty-five degrees and she’s free. Remove the stock and put it down on the ground cloth next to the magazine.

“Now pull the trigger and pull backwards; you will find that the entire grip and trigger assembly slide off easily. You know the drill… put it on the ground cloth.”

Daniil Kostyshakov was, himself, unfamiliar with the Lewis guns, though he’d read about them, and about light machine guns, in general, in various German military journals while incarcerated in Fort IX. These had mostly covered tactical employment, rather than the mechanics of the things.

Seeing Kostyshakov watching from the edge of the parade field, Nenonen turned matters over to a half-trained assistant and trotted over.

“I am beginning to doubt, Sergeant Major, that the Germans will come through with those machine pistols,” Kostyshakov began. “That means we may be using these things to clear rooms, hallways, stairwells, and floors. Tell me about them.”

Nenonen filled his cheeks and blew air out, in a fricative. “They’re a really mixed blessing, sir.”

“How so?”

“Well… in the first place, they’re very complex. They’re… mmm… best I show you.”

Nenonen led the way to where one group of three men had just completed disassembly on their Lewis. “Go join one of the other gun teams,” he told them. “Your gun will still be here when you get back.”

Nenonen picked up one of the pan magazines lying on the ground cover. Turning it over, he said, “Problem one is this, sir. So are problems two and three.

“This holds forty-seven rounds. Captain Romeyko is sitting on some that hold ninety-seven rounds, but they’ve got their issues, too, so we don’t know what to do with them. Note that it’s open on the side that faces the gun and the ground. It has to be, given the way these things are loaded. It has the advantage of allowing dirt and mud to get out. It has the far worse disadvantage of allowing a lot more dirt and mud to get in in the first place.”

Nosing around the ground sheet the sergeant major picked up a cylindrical tool, from a cubical leather case, which he affixed to a shorter cylinder that was part of the magazine. The tool had a hand-width diamond pattern engraved on the upper half to aid in gripping.

Nenonen explained, “You load these by inserting one round at a time and then”—here he twisted the tool by hand to demonstrate—“turning this to rotate the disk that holds the round in place. You have to do this forty-seven times to load the magazine fully. It is not easy and it is not quick.

“That’s why we have twenty-two magazines for every Lewis gun: to keep up an adequate rate of fire for a long enough time, you need every one of those, fully loaded, to start.

“But the weight of twenty-two fully loaded magazines is about sixty pounds for the ammunition and thirty-eight or so pounds for the magazines. Add in the twenty-eight pounds for the gun, itself, and… well, a three-man crew is barely enough for the job. And they won’t be exactly playing leapfrog with each other while they’re moving across the battlefield, either.

“It’s also a problem for marching fire. This magazine spins as it’s feeding ammunition to the gun. If the gunner doesn’t keep it well away from his body and cant it to the right, it’s going to rub on, maybe even get caught on, his uniform. That means a stoppage.

“And then there’s the overheating problem…”

“But I thought that shroud on the barrel kept it cool,” Daniil interrupted.

“For a while—longer than you might expect—it does. That’s not the problem.”

Nenonen reached down again, this time picking up a smallish, flattish half cylinder. “It’s this thing, the operating spring. Unlike most machine guns, instead of a long helical spring to drive the bolt and/or operating rod forward, it’s got what amounts to a clock spring wound up inside this. But it’s also near the chamber and it does get hot, hot enough to lock up the gun. And in a hard fight it will tend to do so long before those twenty-two magazines are used up.

“Oh, and speaking of heat”—here the sergeant major reached out and tapped the shroud around the barrel—“this thing gets hot within the first four magazines, too hot to hold without a glove, and that glove had better be thick.

“Also, sir, note that if you get to close quarters, there is no bayonet lug. It’s also too heavy to manhandle quickly from one aiming point to another.

“Finally, there are fifteen distinct causes of stoppages, ranging from a freely rotating magazine that won’t feed to a double feed. About half of those, eight, to be exact, can generally be dealt with by immediate action. The other seven? They require a good deal more effort, down to and including taking the thing apart, to one degree or another. This is a neat trick on a muddy battlefield.

“But, sir, all that said, what it does, which is to provide mobile suppressive fire to the foot soldiers, it still does better than anything else in the world, to date.”

Kostyshakov nodded understanding. And one problem you didn’t mention, Sergeant Major: once we go into a building to clear it out and rescue the royal family, this thing is going to shoot right through all but the stoutest walls, at things we cannot even guess at, let alone see. Put the royal family in a clump, on the other side of one of those walls and, well, we shouldn’t have even bothered to start.

Interlude

Tatiana: The changing of the guard

My favorite days were the ones where the Fourth Regiment was on duty. There were still those who remained friendly to us and it made the day easier for everyone, especially Alexei.

Papa, Alexei, and I spent several hours with the men of the Fourth in the guardhouse. There was talk and discontentment, some of which they were reluctant to discuss. But finally they did, opening up to Papa about the grumblings in the Second Regiment.

Those grumblings came to fruition in the most unexpected way on February Eighth. The soviet of soldiers of the Second had decided to replace Commissar Pankratov, the very man who worked so hard to “enlighten” them. They had decided that his ideology was not Bolshevik enough and called for a Bolshevik commissar to be sent from Moscow.

He was not their only casualty however. That crass man, Nikolsky, must also resign. They “insisted.” I confess, I looked forward to seeing him go.

I waited for Papa to ask what would happen to Commissar Pankratov, but he did not interrupt, letting the men of the Fourth lead the conversation now that they were so forthcoming.

They spoke of rumors that the new Soviet Russia was no longer at war and that the army was to be disbanded.

As they spoke their fears, he would pat their shoulders and say something encouraging, but his voice would break and sometimes he couldn’t finish speaking.

The men continued to speculate, to hope, and he’d sit there, blinking like a man keeping tears at bay.

Finally, when there was no more to say, no more to hear, Papa nodded his understanding and shook hands with them. Something sad passed between him and the men huddled in the guard house.

That sadness descended onto my father’s shoulders like a heavy cloak. Those shoulders that I once knew would hold up the world, remained weighed down even as he straightened, stood, and bid the men a good night. The cloak trailed behind him in the snow on the way back to the house, leaving invisible drag marks in the snow. He held onto my hand and Alexei’s, our skin separated by gloves. Even through them, I could sense a different kind of cold than the one clawing at our faces.

A few days later I found out why that news had made them so sad. Several soldiers from the Fourth came in secret to say their goodbyes. The old soldiers, those most friendly to us, those we had called “our guard” instead of our guards, were to leave us.

March brought even worse news as I served lunch to Prince Dolgorukov and Papa in his study. Colonel Kobylinsky knocked on the door and came in. He had just received a telegram.

We were to be put on soldiers’ rations and given a stipend from which to maintain our household. Our expenses were no longer to be paid by the State. The same State that had taken everything from us, decided what little we could keep, and with the stroke of a pen, turned us into beggars as well as prisoners.

That cloak of grief and sadness that I was certain only I could see, that I tried and tried to blink away but couldn’t, pulled at my father’s soul. I could see the toll of it in his eyes.

Resolved to our new fate, to this new judgment, Papa and Prince Dolgorukov drew up the accounts.

I went to tell Mama, and she and I joined them as they went over the numbers again and again.

“We shall have to dismiss ten servants,” Dolgorukov said.

Mama put her hand on Papa’s shoulders, trying as if by magic, to draw away the weight of that wearying cloak. They spoke quietly, not of themselves, but of what would happen to the servants and their families, for their devotion to us had led them down this dark road that would start with beggary and end up worse. They would forever be tainted by their association with us.

Like Father Vasiliev, who had been sent off, like Commissar Pankratov who’d shown us kindness, they would be branded as traitors to the new Soviet Russia.

Was everyone who touched our lives to be condemned for doing so?

Chapter Eight

Camp Budapest

The strategic reconnaissance section, under Lieutenant Turgenev, would be leaving camp in the morning. The Germans had come up with the money, though, as Hoffmann had said, mostly in paper, rather than coin. It had been increased substantially because of that. The pistols were in hand, each man in the section having put about three hundred rounds downrange. They also had eight of the much shorter Model 1907 carbines, and every man had requalified on them. The M1907s, moreover, had been disassembled, had their forestocks cut down, and now reposed in two cases that, from appearances, couldn’t possibly contain rifles.

There was a portable telegraph set, with a small spool of wire, courtesy of the Germans. Indeed, it was a German set. The men wore civilian clothing, to include foot gear and hats. Uniforms were tucked into their bags.

There was a code set up. Indeed, the Germans, thorough as they tended to be, had had their Swedish Office send a message each to Tobolsk, Yekaterinburg, and Tyumen, addressed to Pan-Siberian Import Export, to, in the first place, prove the lines were still up, and, in the second, give the team a reason to send a telegram, or a series of them, to Sweden.

The Germans had even found them a thoroughly unprincipled Romanian smuggler, a nasty old pirate named Bogdan Vraciu. He plied the Euxine, bribing who he had to or robbing, condemning, and killing whom he could. For a high fee he’d agreed to bring them approximately to Rostov-on-Don.

The budget hadn’t gone up, even though there were now three extra men—Shukhov, a combat engineer, also called a “pioneer,” Timashuk, a medic, and Sarnof, the signaler, added to the roster. Private Sarnof wasn’t especially happy about the assignment. It would also be Sarnof’s job to encode any messages. In his bag was also the portable telegraph and the copy of Chernychevsky’s What is to be Done?, just as Timashuk carried an aid bag, and Shukhov a limited quantity of demolitions, less the blasting caps, which were split between Turgenev and Mokrenko.

“If we get caught doing this,” Sarnof insisted, “we’ll all be shot!”

“Could be worse,” answered Mokrenko; “they could hang us instead.”

For some inexplicable reason, this thought failed to calm Sarnof down in the slightest.

“We’re ready, sir,” Turgenev told Kostyshakov, later, in the canvas walled officers’ mess tent. “Materially, anyway, we’re ready, except, maybe, for a potential shortage in cash. We can probably fix that with a bank robbery, if we absolutely must. But there’s still a problem. What if others… well, I mean, of course there are going to be others; what if there’s already a plot afoot to rescue the royal family? What if there are twenty such plots, as there may be?”

Daniil, who actually hadn’t given that any thought yet, opined, “Probably more than twenty. We’re Russian; plotting is what we do. What are your thoughts?”

“Yes, sir, probably more than twenty,” Turgenev agreed. “However many, though, I think that, for the most part, we need to have as little to do with any of them as possible,” answered Turgenev. “There may be someone who has useful information, I suppose, but what if they’re really working for the Reds? I mean; the tsar has been deposed and under guard for almost a year, now, and no attempt at a rescue? That smells to me of someone trusted by someone else who is working for the other side and turning any rescuers over to the Bolsheviks.

“And—and here’s the real problem, for us, anyway; for the entire mission, I mean—what if there is someone, or many someones, who are only exciting Bolshevik paranoia and causing the Reds to be more on guard? To have them calling in reinforcements? To have them putting the royal family under tighter control, maybe with guards present to shoot them on the slightest fear of a rescue attempt? What then?

“And what about the smugglers who are to transport us across the sea?”

Daniil thought upon that, silently, for a several long moments, before answering, “You probably need to kill them. Or to get the Bolsheviks to do so. Yes, it would be sad, especially if their hearts are in the right place, but the safety of the royal family and the future of the empire are more important than a few incompetents, even with good hearts. And as for the pirates who are supposed to transport you back home… dead men tell no tales, if you suspect these might tell some.”

“Thank you, sir,” Turgenev said. “I… we… had already come to those conclusions. We disliked it so much we needed, really needed, someone to give us the moral absolution of telling us so.”

Daniil let his chin and eyes sink groundward. That, I suppose, is what I get the lavish pay for.

“Don’t spare any tears for the smuggler the Germans found for you. They wouldn’t use him if he were not both expendable and deserving of being expended. But how are you going to deal with him?”

“None of us can sail a boat,” Turgenev said. “We need them for that. Moreover, we probably ought not do anything to them unless we have reason to become suspicious. If we have any hint they mean us ill, we figure to wait until he’s a few hours out from Rostov-on-Don, kill him and his crew, dump the bodies, launch the lifeboat, set the boat on fire and row in.”

“Sounds plausible,” Daniil agreed. “The timing may not, however, work out so conveniently.”

Burgas, Bulgaria

“I’m sorry,” said Feldwebel Weber, indicating with his finger a sailing vessel moored to the group’s front. As always, Weber stood slightly stooped. He added, “But this was all we could come up with. Be on your guard. Do not trust any of the crew.”

Turgenev answered, “I understand. Needs must, and all. We’ll be all right. Thank you, Feldwebel.” Then he stomped up the gangway, more properly called the “brow,” to meet the captain.

The ship, the Loredana, was considerably bigger than any of the Russians had expected. Rocking gently at anchor, tied to the wharf by Burgas’s shipping district in the south of the city, she looked to Mokrenko to be about sixty arshini long, or maybe a trifle more. He knew the things sticking up from the deck were called “masts,” that the cross pieces on the masts were “yardarms,” and the white cloth hanging from them sails, but there his nautical knowledge ended.

There was nothing wrong with his arithmetic, though; he counted five sails tied to the yardarms, plus two small triangular ones running from the top of the foremost mast to the wooden pole—he would soon learn it was called a “bowsprit,” sticking out in front. There were also two large triangular sails behind each of the two rearward masts, as well as another being set between the first mast and the middle one.

While Turgenev spoke to the captain, Mokrenko watched the crew setting that between-the-masts sail, as well as the five on the yardarms. He noticed among them a small boy or, perhaps a girl or young woman, dark blond, peeking at the Russians from behind the rearmost mast. The confusion stemmed from the kid being in boy’s clothes. On closer observation, though, Mokrenko decided it must be a girl.

I’ve never in my life been on any boat bigger than a little rowboat. And never on the ocean. Lord, please help me, help all of us, not to get seasick. I wonder who the girl is; captain’s daughter, maybe?

There was a tone and tenor to the conversation between the lieutenant and the ship’s captain that made it more of an argument. Mokrenko picked up bits and pieces of the conversation. “… balance the ship… not going to be separated… want to founder in a storm… still not… move cargo… so move it… you pay… how much? Segarceanu!”

When Turgenev joined Mokrenko, waiting on the wooden wharf, he said, “I trust that bastard even less than I expected to. We’re going to stay two men to a cabin. Fifty percent alert. I’ll pull my watch the same as anyone else.”

“Suggestion, sir?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“We’d be better off with two armed men fully rested, awake, and alert, outside the cabins, watching all of them, than we would be with four, alone, struggling to stay awake against the darkness. And for meals we send two men together to bring them to us. One man eats; we wait an hour, to see if he gets sick, then the rest of us do.”

The lieutenant considered that, then agreed. Pointing with his chin at one of the crewmen, he said, “That’s apparently Segarceanu. He’s to show us to our cabins. Which are all to be together.”

“Put the rifles where, sir?” asked Mokrenko. The rifles were disassembled, with no bayonets since the M1907 couldn’t mount them, anyway. They sat on the wharf in two cases that looked to be, and ordinarily were, too small each to hold four or five rifles.

“Our cabin.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Loredana, the Russians were somewhat surprised to discover, had a powerful auxiliary engine down below. This served, using a small fraction of its available oomph, to move the ship out from the wharf and on its way to the channel that led to the sea.

“We don’t look like we have the power,” said the greasy, black-haired Captain Vraciu, standing on the bridge with Turgenev. There was a modicum of white mixed in with the black. “No one looks for a smuggler of this size unless they look like they can outrace the patrol vessels. We set the sails so most of the landlubbers don’t notice the engine, which we keep as quiet as possible.

“Fuel’s expensive, too, so we mostly use the sails anyway. But if I see another ship approaching, one I don’t know if I can take or bribe, then we call on the engines.”

Turgenev regarded the skipper. He stinks of old tobacco smoke, and not the good stuff, either. That, and he has liquor on his breath. That would tend to explain the bulbous veined nose and the perpetual five o’clock shadow, too lazy or drunk to shave. He should probably go to see a good dentist, especially given how many teeth are already missing. It would help, too, if he changed those baggy, dirty clothes. He also reeks faintly of shit.

“How many days to Rostov?” Turgenev asked.

“Unless you want to pay extra for the fuel…?”

Being already likely short of cash, what with the addition of the medic, pioneer, and signaler, with no chance to get more, Turgenev said, “No.”

“Five days, then, if the winds stay with us.”

Turgenev read that as, Four days, then we shake you down for money, or it will take more than six, unless, of course, you’ve all gotten sick enough first that we can cut your throats and loot your baggage before then.

The first to succumb was Cossack Lavin. Three hours of travel and less than twenty miles out of port, he felt his gorge rising. A quick race to the rail and his five foot, eight inch frame shook as he projectile vomited into the sea.

Mokrenko and the signaler, Sarnof, each took a side to help Lavin below to his cabin. No sooner had they stood him up than the Cossack convulsed again, bending at the waist and painting Sarnof’s trousers with bile. The signaler got one whiff of the stench, dropped Lavin, and threw himself half over the rail, his chest and abdomen heaving with the effort of expelling everything he’d eaten for what seemed the last month.

Mokrenko instantly stopped breathing, only exhaling slowly through his nose, to try to keep the infectious stench at bay, as he led Lavin back to the rail.

Standing between the two, fingers clenched into the material of their collars, Mokrenko looked out over the nearly glass smooth sea, wondering, What the fuck happens if we hit bad weather?

At that moment the air, which had been almost still, relative to the ship, suddenly picked up a breeze, cold and wet, bearing down from the north. A few minor capillaries appeared on the water, harbingers full of malevolent promise.

“Oh, fuck!”

The beating of rain and waves, the wind ripping through the rigging, and the groaning of the wood of the ship, all combined to create a cacophony that made thinking hard and speech nearly impossible.

Mokrenko held off the heaves by sheer willpower. All the rest, though, succumbed to a greater or lesser degree. The least affected, other than Mokrenko, was Shukhov, the pioneer. For the most part he was all right, with “all right” being occasionally interrupted by a bout of vomiting.

It fell to Mokrenko to fetch the meals, since Shukhov couldn’t be counted on not to puke into the stew. Generally, he was able to load two double loaves of bread, or four pounds of hard tack, into a bag, carrying the stew in a clean bucket. Mostly the food went over the side, as the rest of the section was unable to eat even a bit.

It was when he was bringing food back to the cabins that one of the crewmen, a bearded, greasy sort in a short, black waxed jacket, pushed out a foot, tripping the Cossack and causing him to lose control of the bucket, spilling about half the stew.

There were seven crewmen present, not counting the cook. All laughed heartily. Also all had knives, including the cook. Not a time to fight, thought Mokrenko. Not at these odds. But there will be a reckoning.

“You’ll clean up your mess,” said black jacket.

“No,” answered Mokrenko, fingering his sword, “I won’t.”

The worst was Corporal Koslov, “Goat.” By the time Mokrenko got back with the food, Goat was begging all and sundry—loudly—to, “Please, for the love of God, please shoot me.”

Passing the half bucket’s worth of stew to Shukhov, Mokrenko proceeded to take away Koslov’s pistol, his shashka, his kindjal, and his rope belt.

“Why the belt, Sergeant,” Shukhov asked.

“Lest the corporal try to hang himself.”

“Oh.”

Shukhov and Mokrenko did their best to estimate the size of the crew against the day of having to get rid of them. The best they’d been able to come up with, so far, was sixteen, including the captain and the cook, but not the roughly twelve- to fourteen-year-old girl who never said a word and seemed to be there for the captain’s nocturnal entertainment.

The ship, meanwhile, adding insult to injury, was a continuous roller coaster, alternating deep, seemingly terminal dives into the troughs with shuddering efforts to rise onto the swells.

That cocksucker, Vraciu, is making it worse on purpose, thought Mokrenko, carrying a vomit-filled bucket up a madly swaying ladder, to dump the contents over the side. The puke was a disgusting mix of Turgenev’s and Koslov’s ejecta. Mokrenko couldn’t quite bring himself even to look into the mess.

If either I or Shukhov succumb, the other is going to collapse from sheer fatigue. Then the crew will pile on us within the hour. I’d seriously consider attacking the bastards now, just myself and the engineer, but we can’t man the ship. Don’t know how and the two of us aren’t enough even if we did. And Shukhov’s not well enough even if we knew how and were enough. Maybe when the storm’s over, we can, but in this gale we haven’t a chance.

Hmmm… how about taking a hostage? No, Vraciu doesn’t seem to care enough about any of his crew, not even that underage girl he likely buggers, for a threat to one or two of them to delay him in launching an attack for an instant. At least the way he slaps them around says they don’t matter to him.

Mokrenko tied the vomit-filled bucket off to a line and dumped it over the side to wash it out. As he was hauling it back aboard, he noticed one of the crew—Ah, yes, my friend, black jacket—head covered with the jacket against the cold squall—moving unsteadily forward on the wet and swaying deck.

The bucket came back aboard just as the crewman passed close by, lost in his own thoughts, troubles, and miseries. Mokrenko took a quick glance toward the bow. Nobody. He looked even more quickly up into the rigging. Nobody. Then he dropped the bucket to the deck, bent down while lunging forward, grabbed the crewman about the thighs, then lifted and carried him to the gunwales, before launching the sailor over the side.

No one heard the splash, but Mokrenko took a deep personal satisfaction in watching the man treading water, far behind. The Cossack watched with glee as a three-meter wave crashed down upon the helpless crewman, momentarily sending him under. He popped up, struggling frantically, a few moments later. The next large wave likewise washed over him. By the time he should have popped up from that, the ship was far enough away that the mist, rain, and spray blocked any clear view.

Just doing Your work, Lord.

He probably won’t drown, but the cold will kill him eventually. One down. Fifteen to go. Sixteen if we have to dispose of that little girl. That, I would much rather not have to do.

Barquentine Loredana, Black Sea, 28 Jan, 1918

The captain and crew were absolutely frantic, desperately searching for their missing crewman. Mokrenko was shocked, actually. Who would have imagined that that old pirate would care about any of his crew?

The mystery was cleared up when Vraciu, himself, came into the passenger area demanding to know, “Have any of you seen my son?”

Which would also tend to explain why the shit thought he could get away with tripping me.

“Why, no, Captain,” Mokrenko lied. He felt zero obligation to be honest with known enemies. “What did he look like?”

Vraciu shot Mokrenko a look of sheer menace. He’d heard about his son’s little game with the passenger and how the passenger refused to play his part in the game. Maybe we’ll hang you from the yardarm, the captain thought, before we toss your corpse overboard. If we don’t find my son, alive and well, we’ll hang you to unconsciousness a dozen times before we finally let you die.

Barquentine Loredana, Black Sea, 29 Jan, 1918

Sarnof was the first of the stricken to show a recovery. Despite the continuing storm, he was well enough, indeed, that he could have stood a guard shift.

Mokrenko decided against that, very quietly telling the signaler, “No, they think there’s just two of us able to fight. Be a big surprise to them to discover just that little bit too late that there’s another pistol and sword in play. Stay in your cabin, Sarnof. Be quiet except for making the odd moan and gagging sound. You might even try doing vomiting imitations; you’ve had enough practice for that, I believe.”

Now it was Shukhov’s turn on guard. He had his pistol hidden under his tunic, his kindjal likewise, and his sword, his shashka, in one hand, across his lap, with the point of the scabbard resting on the floor.

It was hard, oh, so hard, to stay awake. It wasn’t made any easier by the occasional waves of nausea that still swept over the young pioneer from time to time. Neither was it made any easier by the very limited moonlight that crept in through the few portholes.

Shukhov used the fingers of his left hand to hold one eye open for a bit, then switched to the other, then back to the first. Gradually, he became aware—or thought he did—of a small presence in the open area between the cabins.

Suddenly awake, the pioneer swept his sword from its scabbard, holding it pointed at where he thought the apparition stood.

“Quietly,” the apparition said, in surprisingly good, albeit very soft, Russian. “Be quiet or they’ll hear you.”

“The… the girl?” Shukhov asked. “How…”

“How do I speak Russian? I am Russian,” the girl replied. “I am Natalya, Natalya Vladimirovna Sorokina. The Bolsheviks murdered my parents, made use of me for a week or so, and then sold me to that swine of a captain for three cases of rakia. I’m sure you’ve figured out what the captain bought me for.”

Shukhov didn’t confirm that he could guess. Why add to the girl’s humiliation? Her accent says “very upper class.” It will be harder on her, then.

“They are coming tonight,” Natalya said. “Even now the captain is giving half the crew, the half that will be used, their orders.”

“What weapons?” Shukhov asked.

“Clubs, knives. The only pistol on board is the captain’s. He’d only ever entrust it to his son, who seems to have disappeared. If you are the one who killed him—if he was killed—you have my eternal thanks.”

“Not me,” the pioneer answered. “Someone else. When will they come?”

“Sometime after midnight. Now, I have to go. Be ready. And good luck.”

Since the captain and crew had already made free with her, Natalya was free to go to her miserable bunk and lie down. She sent a prayer to a God she had come to have some doubts about, to take care of her countrymen about to fight for their lives. Maybe He’s there and maybe He’ll listen. It was so easy to believe back when I was a… well… that doesn’t matter anymore.

The sense of being totally alone in the world, without even the presence of God to comfort her, was too much. As she did most nights, Natalya began to cry into the rough sack that served for a pillow. That actually helped, at least a little.

The terrible thing is there is nothing I can tell myself I should have done differently. I didn’t act like a whore. I didn’t talk like a whore. I was dressed normally, like a teenaged girl. I didn’t do anything, so why should this have befallen me? Why? Can you answer that for me, God, if you’re out there? WHY?

Of course I know the answer; my parents and I were in a nice carriage, with a nice couple of horses pulling it. That made us rich, made us “class enemies,” the exact term the Bolsheviks used before beating me, or lining up for their fun. Or both.

Of course, the worst part wasn’t even the violation, the being made to serve. It was making me pretend to enjoy it to avoid another beating. Funny how both the Bolsheviks and the ship’s crew fixed on that. A certain kind of man? Are they all like that? No, I know they’re not. My father was a good man. I think these countrymen taking passage on this ship are good men. At least none of them look at me like a slightly rotten piece of meat.

I think if they lose, I’m going to join them in the water. I can take at least that much satisfaction, depriving these swine of the use of me.

“After midnight,” Mokrenko observed, in the forwardmost, portside cabin, “means not a lot of time. Okay, here’s what we do. Shukhov and Sarnof, dig out four dynamo lights from our baggage. Then get a uniform… make it one of the…”

The sergeant stopped at sensing the unsteady presence of Lieutenant Turgenev standing in the door. “Keep doing what you’re doing, Sergeant, but add me to the roster of those who can fight. At least somewhat, I can. I think.”

“All right, sir,” Mokrenko said, gently. “Can I ask you then to take one of your uniforms, cut open your cabin’s mattresses, and use the stuffing to make us a dummy to sit out in the open area?”

“I can do this. It may smell a little of puke before I am done.”

“That, sir, would be perfect. Now, Shukhov; get everyone’s pistols but the lieutenant’s, plus four boxes of ammunition, then meet me at the foremast. When you get there, pass out the pistols, at least two to each of us. Sarnof, you get the dynamo lights and a piece of rope. Hmmm… on second thought, no, get pieces, two more than long enough for the width of this open area plus one about half that. And please bring something to secure the dummy.”

“And, for God’s sake, everybody, do so quietly.”

The ambush was laid out in accordance with the plan of the passenger area. This area was forward, in what might otherwise have been accommodation for the crew. In the middle was an open area, through which the foremast penetrated the top deck on its way down to the keel. It was flanked by six cabins, three to either side, plus a forward storage area kept under lock and key by the captain.

“Listen up,” Mokrenko said, when everyone had assembled by the foremost portside cabin. “Everyone have their shashka?”

“Yes,” answered each man in turn, just audibly, though Turgenev whispered, “I’ve got it. I’m leaning on it. But, while I can probably shoot, I have my doubts about using a sword very effectively at the moment.”

“Not a problem, sir,” Mokrenko said. “You shouldn’t even have to shoot. First off, everyone gets two pistols except the lieutenant, who gets one. Everyone gets one of the dynamo lights. Shukhov, tie the lieutenant’s dummy to the mast, facing the rear. Then you go over to the corner by the cabin we met in, also facing the rear of the ship. The ‘stern,’ they call it. If they attack before we’re ready, light up and open fire. The rest of us will dive low.”

“I understand, Sergeant,” Shukhov whispered back. “I’m putting my mess kit under the hat, so we get a louder sound if they try to brain it.”

“Good thought.”

Then Mokrenko, carrying both lengths of rope, led the lieutenant and Sarnof to the starboard side rearmost cabin. “Just wait here, sir. I’ll be back.”

From there, still carrying the rope, he crossed the deck to the opposite cabin. Opening the doorway—the “hatch,” the sailors would have called it, he went inside and felt around for the fixed bunkbeds against the hull. He tied a rope each to the ends of these, one at the head and one at the foot, with the one at the head a half an arshin higher than the one at the foot. He then played out the rope behind him, on the deck, as he crossed back to Turgenev and Sarnof.

At the other cabin, he passed the rope around the bunks, handing the free end of one each to Turgenev and Sarnof. He worked as deliberately and carefully as his increasing sense of dread allowed. I’ve never been in a fight on the water. What if it’s different from on land?

He thought it best to explain what he wanted and why.

“They’ve seen our swords,” Mokrenko said. “But they probably don’t have a clue about the pistols or the dynamo lights. If they had that clue, they probably wouldn’t even try to take us.

“When Shukhov and I hear them enter this area, we’re going to light them up and open fire. I think they’ll run away… but we don’t want them to run away. That’s why I want you two to haul on those ropes with everything you have as soon as we open fire. When they run, they trip, then Shukhov and I attack—and you, too, Sarnof, and chop them up good. No prisoners, no survivors.”

Seeing there wasn’t going to be any argument about that, not even from the lieutenant, who tended towards gentility, Mokrenko continued. “Once we’ve finished off this group, you two go up on the top deck and clear it of sailors. Any that want to surrender at that point can, but at the slightest sign of treachery or resistance, kill them. Meanwhile, Shukhov and I will clear this deck to the stern. Questions?”

“You don’t want us to shoot from here?” Turgenev asked.

“No, sir; our pistols are enough for this part. Shoot only if one of them comes in here.”

Mokrenko left those two and that cabin, working his way silently to the straw dummy—which did, indeed, reek of human vomit—then to Shukhov. He stiffened at the sound of rats scurrying across wood. Them? Or rats fleeing them?

“You awake?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Mokrenko passed one end of the short rope to Shukhov. “Okay, loop the end of this rope around your arm. I’ll do the same. If one of us is dumb enough to fall asleep, the other can wake him.”

“I understand, Sergeant. Good idea.”

“Also, you take the ones from the mast to the left. I’ll take the ones from the mast to the right. We light them up, empty both pistols, draw our shashka and charge.”

“I understand, Sergeant.”

Mokrenko went then to the corner opposite Shukhov’s. There he sat carefully, laid his shashka across his lap, took one pistol in his right hand, and waited.

The remaining five men of the expedition were all, in considerable misery, collected into the portside foremost cabin, with the medic, Timashuk, armed with the last pistol, to guard them.

Well, thought Mokrenko, if the ambush fails, it is unlikely, given Timashuk’s continuing nausea, that any will survive. At least they’ll be able to go down fighting.

Unseen by any of the others, two little beady eyes watched out from a small out of the way cubbyhole. The eyes belonged to the ship’s senior rat, thought of as Number One, keeping a wary watch out for the archnemesis of all maritime rats, the ship’s cat.

With rather better than human vision, the rat watched the strangers’ preparations with a keen interest, eager to see if any of them would prove detrimental to the continued health and prosperity of rat-kind.

The crew, when they came, did so with the quiet caution of rats scurrying softly across the wooden deck. Mokrenko had been shifting his eyes steadily, to try to keep his night vision going. It really wasn’t enough. It also didn’t help one stay awake all that well, when there was nothing for the eye to see.

He caught himself nodding off a half a dozen times. Twice he’d jerked himself awake so violently that the back of his head smacked against the bulkhead of the storage room.

Indeed, it was only when he heard a human whisper, slightly above the ratlike sound of dirty bare feet on the deck, that he came fully alert. He was about to pull on the rope leading to Shukhov when the pioneer began pulling on his own. He jerked it slightly anyway, to let Shukhov know he wasn’t alone and the fight was about to start.

Mokrenko’s right thumb reached for the safety, making doubly sure it was off. He left thumb went for the ring of the dynamo flashlight on his chest. His heart began to pound for the impending action. Please, God, don’t let that fuck up my aim.

Mokrenko heard, “Prostul doarme; bate în cap.” He spoke not a word of Romanian, but the meaning became clear as he heard the whoosh of something moving fast through air, followed by the sound of wood smashing into sheet metal.

Mokrenko pulled the ring furiously, creating both a whirring sound and the beginnings of a flash of light. It wasn’t much, on its own, but given the previous total darkness it was just enough to make out eight rather surprised thugs with clubs and knives, standing on the other side of the foremast, between the two rows of cabins.

Shukhov’s light joined Mokrenko’s in a tenth of a second. Between the two, there was enough to fire by. The M1911s barked, once, twice, a half dozen times each. Mokrenko couldn’t be certain of any given hit, but he saw two of the crew fall back like limp sacks overstuffed with shit.

He emptied the last two rounds, hitting, he thought, nothing, and then pulled the ring again. “Attack!” he shouted to Shukhov, drawing the full yard of his shashka as he leapt to his feet. Mokrenko realized he was shaking, not with fear but with rage. That smashed mess kit reinforced that they’d intended to kill him.

And now, you filth, I intend to kill you.

Mokrenko and Shukhov saw as many pirates go down to the twin tightened ropes running across the deck as had fallen to the pistols.

Two of the latter, felled by Shukhov, lay on the deck bleeding. Dead or not, Mokrenko wasn’t taking any chances. The shashka swept down, guided by hand and by the marginal light of the dynamo lights, slashing one crewman across the throat so deeply that the head lolled back, unsupported by muscles or tendons. A fountain of blood shot out across the deck. The other rolled on his back, putting up defensive hands and pleading, “Te rog nu mă ucide.”

Mokrenko lopped off one hand, raising a shriek, and, when the remaining hand went to staunch the flow of blood, pointed the shashka down and plunged it into an eye, then twisted it farther down into the brain.

He risked a glance to the side to see Shukhov fighting to get his sword free of the skull it was buried in.

He’s not going to be any goddamned help!

At that point, Mokrenko resheathed the sword and drew his spare pistol. With his left hand still working the dynamo light, he proceeded to empty the thing into the backs of the crew still trying to escape in the throng across the deck. With each round fired he muttered a Russian curse: “Bitch”—bang!—“asshole”—bang—“cunt”—bang—“swine”—bang… bang… bang… bang… bang.

He put the pistol back into his pocket, immediately regretting it as the muzzle was more than a little warm, then used the shashka to slash and stab. Shukhov joined him and likewise began to hack apart the crew to make sure.

“Never mind that,” Mokrenko ordered. “Your pistol, one of them, is still loaded? Good, stand guard. Lieutenant Turgenev? Sarnof? Come on out and get topside, please, sir. Shukhov cover me while I reload.”

While the lieutenant and Sarnof took over the top deck, seizing and pistol whipping into unconsciousness the one sailor they found up there, Mokrenko and Shukhov reloaded, then worked their way down the ship, kicking open doors. There was nothing, though; the crew, if they were anywhere, had retreated to the stern.

“Come out, you swine,” ordered Mokrenko, in Russian, standing by the galley’s main hatch. “Come out, Captain, but throw your pistol out, first, or we’ll cut you down where you stand.”

Captain Vraciu’s pistol was thrown to the deck almost instantly.

“Now get on deck.”

One by one, under the irregular light from the dynamo lights, the just under half of the crew still remaining came out of the galley, to be follow by the captain.

“Lieutenant!?” called Mokrenko.

“Here,” answered Turgenev, from the top deck.

“They’re coming up, sir, what’s left of them.”

“We’re ready. Send them up one at a time.”

“You first, Captain,” ordered Mokrenko.

“You cannot do this to—”

The captain never quite finished, as Shukhov smashed him across the face with the butt of his pistol, tearing open the captain’s cheek and breaking his nose. The captain fell with the force of the blow, but only stayed down for a moment before Shukhov’s well-placed boot took him in the midsection.

“Up, you crawling filth,” the pioneer ordered. “Crawl up that ladder!”

The girl, Natalya, stepped forward from the crowd. “Am I to go with them?” she asked.

“No, Natalya,” said Mokrenko. “You stay with us.” Something about the girl—Maybe her educated accent—struck him as out of place as a kept slave on a Romanian ship. He tested his theory by asking her, in his own very limited French, “Do you want to stay with us?”

“I do,” she answered in the same language, then thought, Oh, that was probably a mistake. No one’s supposed to know. Bad things happen to me when they know.

“I need to get something,” the girl said, disappearing briefly into the galley and emerging with a large cleaver.

At about that time the shaken, shocked, bleeding captain stuck his head above the hatchway. He found immediately a loop of rope was placed around his neck and pressure applied.

Oh, God, no; they’re going to hang me. Not that, please, not that.

In fact, the captain was, at least for the nonce, wrong. The rope around his neck, though he could have been hanged with it, and though it did run over a yardarm, was only to maintain tight control. As soon as his feet were on deck, the tension was released. Even so, he felt his hands being roughly pulled behind him, before being tightly tied with a piece of rope. At that point, Sarnof moved to the captain’s side, put out one leg, and pushed the captain forward, tripping him to fall face first onto the deck. Then Sarnof knelt on the captain’s back to remove the rope from his neck.

“Next!” shouted Turgenev.

The sun was up now, and the weather much abated, as, hands bound tightly behind them, the remaining crew and the captain knelt upon the deck. One could read in the eyes of each man a stark terror of what their future held.

The lieutenant, feeling much better now, took charge again. He spoke no Romanian, and hardly trusted the captain to translate to the crew.

“I’ve learned it well enough,” said little Natalya, still in defiance of what had been done to her. “You can learn a lot about a language, even on your knees or all fours. I can tell them what you want.”

“Good, child. Translate exactly what I say to them.”

“Yes, sir. I promise.”

“You are all pirates,” Turgenev began. “As such, we need no higher authority than ourselves to hang you all.”

Two of the crew, and Vraciu, himself, began to weep openly at that, Vraciu first, because he didn’t need to wait for the translation.

“You all were party to an attempt to commit a high crime on the high seas. Thus, you are all condemned.”

“We will, however, give the remainder of the crew one chance to possibly save their lives. This will be by faithfully serving us to bring us to our destination, as close as possible to Rostov-on-Don.

“One man, however, we will not trust. That is the captain. He will die.”

Immediately, Turgenev walked to the cringing Vraciu, and grabbed him by the hair. Using this, he dragged the captain to kneel beside the rope that had been used to control him earlier. Now snot ran down Vraciu’s face, to match the freely flowing tears.

“Untie the crew,” the lieutenant ordered. When this had been done he directed the crew, through Natalya, to get good grips on the running end of the rope.

“Noose the bastard, Natalya.”

Happily the girl ran to place the loop around Vraciu’s neck, and to tighten it just enough to ensure it would not slip off. After noosing him, she spat directly onto Vraciu’s snotty, dirty face.

“Lieutenant?” Natalya asked. “I’ve seen these people hang innocent men before. It’s too quick this way.”

“What do you suggest, young lady?” Turgenev asked.

“Untie his hands, so he can struggle with the rope. They did that, sometimes, too.”

Turgenev, apprised of the reason for the girl’s hatred of the captain, thought that fair. “Do it.”

Natalya used the cleaver. She chopped at the rope binding the captain’s wrists but not neatly. Before she was done, two of Vraciu’s fingers littered the deck, while a small pool of blood stained his trousers. Something else stained them, too, as the captain lost bladder control.

“His greatest crime was against you, Natalya. You can give the command to haul away to the remaining crew.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Natalya twisted the loop around the captain’s neck to where it would tighten on one side. She’d seen them do this before, too. It kept the rope from cutting off blood to the brain, thus ensuring a slow strangle and an entertaining dance before unconsciousness took over.

Then the girl walked to a spot just in front of where the line of the crew clutched the rope. There, she tied a loop into the rope. From there, she walked to a point about ten feet farther astern, near where some rigging ran down to the gunwales and where a half dozen belaying pins sat upright in their frame.

“When I give the order,” she told the crew, “walk, do not run, toward me. Stop just before running me over. Ready? NOW!”

Hesitatingly, the crew, still clutching the running end of the rope firmly, began to walk forward. Natalya paid them little mind. Instead, she watched as the rope first bit into the captain’s neck, raising him to his feet.

The captain’s bloodied hands, less those two fingers, grasped for the rope loop in an absolutely mindless panic. Before they could get a grip to try to keep Vraciu from strangling, the rope was taut everywhere but where it allowed blood still to flow. His fingers sought desperately to get between the strangling rope and his neck, even as his legs and feet began a mindless kicking dance for something to stand on, to relieve the murderous encircling pressure on his neck. Gurgling sounds came from the writhing form, a foot or so above the deck, as his lungs sought to draw in air through the tightly constricted airway. The captain continued rising as the crew continued their walk forward.

Soon enough, a matter of seconds, the crew were standing in front of Natalya, carefully keeping their eyes to the stern and away from the strangling, writhing, gurgling, dying thing at the other end of the rope.

At that point, Natalya took the loop and secured it to the ship with one of the belaying pins.

“Let him down gently,” she said. There would be no merciful neck-breaking drop for this particular child rapist. “Now turn around and watch what waits for you if you do not obey the orders of these Russians perfectly.”

Natalya then folded her arms and watched as the captain’s struggles grew weaker and weaker. First his legs stopped churning, though his feet twitched for a good deal longer. Then one hand fell away from the rope, followed shortly by the other. His eyes began to bulge as a blackened tongue protruded from a gaping mouth. The lungs still tried to work for a while, until a heaving chest told of cardiac arrest.

Finally, with shit running down his leg and piss dripping onto the deck, Vraciu gave up the ghost and died.

“And now, you swine,” said Mokrenko, “get below and start carrying up the bodies and dumping them over the side.”

Interlude

Tatiana: Flirting

Mama was having one of those days when she was nearly a corpse. She’d woken tired and barely eaten any breakfast. We girls took turns attending her as she lounged on a couch with Joy curled up at her feet. She dozed off while reading. I pulled the blanket up over her shoulder and left Maria to keep an eye on her should she wake.

I glanced at the clock. Olga was supposed to come help out but she was almost half an hour late. I crept past Alexei’s room. Anastasia was reading to him. Papa had closed the door to his study, but I heard another male voice as I passed. He was probably in another meeting and I didn’t want to interrupt, just to check if Olga was in there without checking the other rooms first.

I entered the hallway leading to the room we girls shared. The door to our room was ajar, allowing light to fall onto one of the threadbare rugs covering the wood floor. A man of medium height and build was leaning into our room. The soldiers were not supposed to be up here and I couldn’t imagine what had brought them.

As I approached, I realized that it was Sergei Chekov. Dirt and oil darkened his blond hair to an almost-brown where his cap usually sat. He had his hands shoved in his pockets as he mumbled something into the room.

I heard the scrape of a chair and the echo of lowered voices.

Chekov moved back into the hallway, allowing me to pass.

Inside, Olga was standing next to Anton Dostovalov. I recognized him, too, as one of the red soldiers. He had been raised on a farm. Just a few years older than Olga, he was a big man with a rumbling voice to match.

Olga’s cheeks were bright red. She was standing against her bed, by the curtain that she’d hung at its foot in order to partition it from the rest of the room. The buttons down the front of her white shirt were lined up wrong as if she’d missed a hole. It hadn’t been that way when I’d seen her earlier.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

She cast me a quick glance, not quite meeting my eyes. “Yes, fine. Anton was just helping me look for something.”

I knew it was lie from the way she said it, from the way neither of them would look at me, from the way Anton shuffled out of the room, and from the disapproving look on Chekov’s face.

We stood in the awkward silence for a moment.

“You might want to re-button your blouse before you go down to see Mama,” I said.

Her cheeks flared once again. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the buttons.

I should have been angry or disappointed, but I wasn’t. These were normal things, things that young men and women our age did. We should have been going to dances and parties, meeting eligible young men, stealing kisses and looks, gossiping about them to compare notes on who made the best jokes, who was the best dancer, who was the most charming.

Papa would take such behavior with stoicism. Mama, I wasn’t sure. The last thing she needed was another burden to bear.

Olga straightened her skirt as she turned for the door and stepped past me.

I grabbed her elbow, pulling her back gently.

She looked at me over her shoulder.

“Was it worth it?” I asked.

The look in her eyes said that it was. That she’d do it again.

And I couldn’t blame her.

Chapter Nine

Range B (Machine gun and Cannon), Camp Budapest

Progress is still too slow, thought Kostyshakov, and it’s really no one’s fault.

The ranges, so far, ran, from east to west, A, B, V, and G1. Range A was rifle and could handle a company in a day’s firing. B was for machine guns and the light cannon. V was for grenades, and had sections for practicing with weighted wooden dummies, still being prepared, to throwing a live one to a target at a distance, and to, as the sergeant major said, “Grow some balls,” by having a half dozen portions of trench system dug, for a soldier to count down the burning of the grenade fuse before tossing it around a corner.

Range G1, which would soon be followed by G2, G3, and G4, was a mock-up of a floor of a building, dug down into the ground to a depth of about twelve to fourteen feet. The log walls inside were still not quite complete.

A full verst from where the last G range was planned, there would be a demolitions range, D, for the engineers to practice and teach their trade. Past that, in three weeks or so, they would be finished building Course E, the bayonet assault course. Course Z, a confidence course comprised of obstacles that looked a good deal more dangerous than they were, would round out the training complex toward the end of the month.

Standing in a shaky range tower lashed together from tree trunks with the bark still on them, Kostyshakov watched as one of the two heavy machine gun crews frantically manipulated their gun’s traversing and elevating mechanism, to keep up with the unpredictable twists, turns, and speed of the sled downrange.

“Works after all,” Daniil muttered. “I am surprised.”

“What was that, sir?” asked Lieutenant Lesh, half shouting to be heard over the firing of the machine gun.

“Nothing…” Daniil twisted slightly to be able to speak more or less into the lieutenant’s ear. “I was just thinking aloud about how well the moving target trick works.”

“Pretty well, yes, sir. You might note how it speeds up and slows down. We alternate the gun crews on the job of pulling the rope. They like to fuck with each other.”

Kostyshakov nodded. “Good technique… do you have a grading…”

There was a explosion from Range V, off to the right. Daniil knew that Lieutenant Baluyev was experimenting with modifying the German stick grenades to serve as blinding and stun grenades. This explosion, however, was a good deal more powerful than one might have expected.

“Sir, I…”

“Never mind, Lieutenant,” he told Lesh. “I’ll go check it out.”

Deeply worried, Daniil scampered down the crude ladder and then jogged for the first of the trenches dug on Range V. The closer he got, the more worried he became about what he might find there. By the time he reached the earthen ramp that descended into the zig-zag trench, he was practically frantic. Down he went, then zigged left before zagging right to find Baluyev and two men he’d apparently detailed to assist him. One of the men sat on the floor of the trench, blinking and rubbing his eyes while swaying from side to side. He managed to sway despite having his back up against the trench’s wall.

The other of the enlisted men was still on his feet, but blinking even more than the first and only managing to keep to his feet by hanging on to an overhead beam supporting the trench’s revetments.

The really interesting one, though, was Baluyev himself. Gone was the fierce moustache, now. Gone, too, was about an inch and a half of the officer’s hairline. His eyes were closed, which closure did nothing to prevent a steady stream of tears exiting them to run down his face in a free cascade.

“Are you all right, Lieutenant?” asked Kostyshakov.

Baluyev used one hand to pry open a single eye. “I’m not blind, anyway, but we’re going to have to tone down the packing of those hand grenades. Just replacing half the filler with photographer’s flash powder is just too much, too much of both.”

The lieutenant suddenly turned away to vomit on the floor of the trench. “And I suppose I’ve got a bit of a concussion. Sorry, sir.”

“So what actually happened?” Kostyshakov asked.

“Replaced half the filler, like I said, sir. My two men and I were close up against the wall behind me. Unscrewed the cap. Pulled the big bead to start the fuse. Tossed the grenade around the corner. When it went off it was not only still powerful enough to knock us silly, but the flash powder followed the blast wave around the corner and just blinded us.”

“Maybe you should start small and work your way up,” Daniil suggested.

“Yes, sir. I think so, sir. I’ll give it…” Again, Baluyev had to bend and retch. “… give it a try, sir.” He wiped his fouled mouth on his sleeve.

“Are you able to carry on now or do I need I find another officer or senior noncom to handle the research?”

“I can start again in a couple of hours, I think, sir. The men…”

“Couple of hours, sir,” answered the one on his feet, whose name was Poletov.

“Think so, too,” agreed the other, sitting down. This one answered to Smirnov.

Kostyshakov looked more carefully as that latter soldier. He noticed, “You’re bleeding, soldier.”

“Yes, sir. I suppose so, sir. Must have been a bit of shrapnel, a part of the casing, that bounced off the wall and scored the top of my head.”

“Baluyev, one of the people we’re going to rescue, the tsarevich, is a bleeder. We can’t risk even scratching him.”

“Another reason to reduce the charge then, sir. Don’t know how much, though.”

“Yeah… once, again, restart, but start small.”

Quartermaster’s office, Camp Budapest

Kaledin stood at ease in front of Romeyko’s makeshift desk. “I think I’ve got three horses,” the Cossack told the quartermaster, “and fifteen mules that should make it and even be in good enough shape in six weeks or so to get work out of them. The rest?” Kaledin’s nostrils dilated as he shook his head, sadly.

“Have we found any turpentine, yet, sir?”

Romeyko looked over at Feldwebel Weber, who answered, “Some, sir. How much do you need per animal, Kaledin?”

“Well… you give it to them—very diluted—over a period of several weeks. Some of them, too, need it applied externally for some of their skin problems. I think I need about two vedro. Call it, in metric, maybe twenty-five liters. I could use some tobacco, too.”

“I found a dozen liters,” the German replied, “and have requests in for two dozen more. Tobacco? It’s not going to be very good tobacco.”

“Shitty tobacco would be fine. Also, maybe some diatomaceous earth, ‘Kieselguhr,’ I think you call it. As for the turpentine, the dozen liters should do for now,” Kaledin said, “provided the rest comes in.”

“Provided,” the German echoed, distantly and doubtfully.

“Problems, Weber?” Romeyko asked.

“Several,” the German replied. The left side up his moustache went up in company with his curling lip.

Romeyko followed that up with a “give forth” motion.

“One problem is that we’re on the ass end of nowhere and can’t raise a huge stink lest the enemy start thinking we’re more important than we seem to be. I mean, after all, he may not have many spies but he must have at least some. The other is that some things that should have been on the train never showed up, at least not in the quantities marked on the invoices.

“Example, we were supposed to receive one hundred and twenty kilograms of nails. Eighty showed up, with the remainder being taken up with rocks buried under the nails. There is no telling where the other forty went. Something similar happened with food, two days in a row. Taenzler fixed that by sending one of his men, armed, to the depot we’re drawing from and escorting the food here. But he’s still having to do that.

“Mine,” the German continued, “is a very proper, correct, and honest people… if… well, frankly, a little pig-headed. When they start stealing things like this… we… we are in trouble.

“No,” he hastened to add, his tone one of despair, “we will not lose the war for forty kilograms of nails, nor a couple of thousand daily rations. But those things are indicative of a deeper problem, a moral one, the rise of selfishness when total selflessness is needed.”

The German’s chin sank upon his chest. “I don’t think we’re going to win the war.”

Neither Romeyko nor Kaledin nor any of the clerks present had anything immediately to say to that. Yes, they and the Germans had been at war until quite recently. But Weber had become an ally and perhaps even something of a friend.

“If it’s any consolation,” Romeyko said, finally, “in Russia it’s worse.”

“Not a lot of consolation, no, sir, but thanks for trying.”

Range V (Grenades), Camp Budapest

An exceedingly rare pig, temporarily spared from Taenzler’s butcher’s knife, was tied to a log inside the trench. It, being a pig, didn’t have much of an idea about what was to happen to it.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, thought Lieutenant Baluyev as he unscrewed the safety cap at the base of the stick on the grenade he was currently holding.

Baluyev had, in total, a dozen modified grenades. The other eleven were lined up outside of the trench and far enough away that setting off one down inside would not set off the others.

The grenades were numbered, with one of his soldiers standing by to record the effects of each version. These ran from a half ounce to two ounces of TNT as the explosive filler, or a twelfth to a third of the normal grenade’s filler. The flash powder ran from completely filling the remainder to roughly half filling it for most of the samples. The exceptions were the grenades with under an ounce of explosive. In these cases the remainder of the casing was only a quarter to a half filled with flash powder.

Baluyev and the men had already had quite enough of that much flash powder going off in an expanding cloud around them. This grenade, for example, “Number One,” was the one with only half an ounce of TNT and perhaps a quarter filled with flash powder.

And it will be years, years, before my moustache is presentable again! Years!

The lieutenant let the screw cap fall to the floor of the trench. A small porcelain ball attached to a string dropped out.

“Grenade One,” Baluyev announced to the recorder.

“One lot, two dolya TNT,” the man answered, “two lot, four dolya flash powder.” A Russian lot was equal to about twelve and four-fifths grams, a dolya to about a sixth of a gram.

Baluyev pulled the knob and immediately tossed the grenade around the corner of the trench. Four seconds later he was rewarded with a considerable bang, and a flash which lit up the opposite wall in a most satisfying manner.

Hmmm… could it be that easy?

Baluyev went to investigate and discovered that, sadly, even a half ounce of TNT, going off in the confined space of the grenade’s head, was sufficient to shatter that head, sending fragments to scatter around the room. The pig, most satisfyingly, was staggering and seemed blinded enough that it ran itself, still pulling its log, head first into the wall.

Unfortunately, the pig was also bleeding into two places, small cuts from light metal fragments. This was no real danger to the pig, but what would have been almost harmless for the pig would likely have proven fatal to the tsarevich.

“No,” Baluyev muttered, “it couldn’t be that easy. Oh well, back to the drawing board.”

Turning to his two assistants, he shouted—he had to shout; they were still half deaf from the previous extravaganza, “Pick up the remainder and let’s give some thought to what we might be able to do to keep them from sending out any fragments. Oh, and give the pig some food.”

Camp Budapest

Okay, thought Baluyev, later in his tent, what do we know and what do we not know?

We know that even a very small charge of TNT will shatter the casing and send out some fragments. We know, too, that it is sufficient to also set off the flash powder. We know that it is also sufficient, in an enclosed space, to stun an animal about the size and complexity of a man.

Do we know what’s in the flash powder? Not exactly, but the drum says potassium perchlorate, magnesium, and lycopodium spores. I don’t know how we’d isolate these, or even if they’d still work if we could. Yeah, we’re stuck with what we have there.

How about if we strengthen the casing, make it stronger, thicker and heavier? Hmmm… out of what? Cast iron? Steel? Outside of our own abilities and the Germans are already pressed. Not enough time, either. So no.

Make the casing softer? Cardboard maybe? No, never hold up to rough use, and the private soldier is the very embodiment of rough use.

Right; can’t make it stronger, can’t make it softer, can’t reduce the charge. What’s left? What’s left? What the fuck is left?

Baluyev closed his eyes—he was still feeling the effects of the previous experiment—and lay back on his pallet. When the wave of nausea had passed, he opened his eyes to stare at the tent’s off-white roof. The small stove’s pipe ran up through a…

“That’s IT! That’s fucking IT! We can perforate the casing, then line it with cardboard. The casing will protect the cardboard from rough handling. The cardboard will disintegrate without fragments. Even the casing shouldn’t fragment on that low a charge, if the blast can escape through the holes.

“Hmmm… we’ll need to wax the cardboard to protect the whole thing from moisture, but that shouldn’t be hard.”

Baluyev stood, abruptly, bringing another wave of nausea. When that passed, he stepped from the tent, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Poletov? Smirnov? Get over here; we have work to do.”

Not far away and not long after, Captain Romeyko annotated his list to add “cardboard” and “wax,” as well as “hand drill” and “large bit.”

Fortunately, thought the quartermaster, all of that is obtainable no farther away than Sofia, which is not so far away.

Range A (Rifle), Camp Budapest

Captain Cherimisov, commander of the Grenadier Company, spent the bulk of his work-day on two tasks; the first was evaluating potential snipers on Range A, the second was looking for Lewis gunners on Range B. Since Grenadier Company was slated to storm the compound and liberate the Romanovs, these selections were of much greater import than such personnel decisions usually warranted.

Today, it was Number One Company, the Headquarters and Support, refamiliarizing their troops on the Mosin-Nagant.

He didn’t yet have a way to select for the kind of moral qualities, reactions, coordination, strength, and speed that he needed for his two assault platoons. Nobody did, to include Kostyshakov, and yet everyone knew, and Kostyshakov had pretty much said, that these kinds of qualities would be critical.

Kostyshakov left it largely up to Cherimisov to select his own company. For now, that meant technical skills, shooting, basically, which was all he could do.

For the nonce, this placed the captain directly behind one soldier, Guardsman Nomonkov, who seemed incapable of missing.

Part of that is probably vision, thought Cherimisov. But there’s something else going on, too. The target goes up and this man snaps off his five rounds, and when they’re marked every one of them, even at seven hundred arshini, is within a circle of four inches or less. I’ve watched him go through forty rounds, now, and the center of the target is so far gone we can’t really be sure he’s even hitting anymore, though we don’t really doubt he is.

“Once he’s done,” Cherimisov told the range NCO for that firing point, “Send him to me, over by the control tower. Can you replace him?”

“Yes, sir, no problem.”

“Sir, Guardsman Maxim Nomonkov reports!” The marksman subtly looked over Cherimisov, whose friendly grin completely failed to reach his cold, blue eyes.

As the soldier studied him, Cherimisov likewise studied Nomonkov’s face and stature. Short, stocky, little bit of an epicanthic fold to the eyes. Part Tatar or Mongol or something from the far east.

He returned the soldier’s salute, then ordered him to, “Relax. I just want to talk.”

“Am I in trouble, sir? Because they couldn’t figure out if I’d hit the target or not?”

The grin grew broader, and yet still failed to reach the eyes. “Not at all, Nomonkov, not at all. Tell me, where are you from?”

“Little village in Siberia, sir; place you never heard of, maybe sixty, sixty-five versta north of Tobolsk.”

“Ever been to Tobolsk?”

“No, sir; they asked me that a while ago. My people stayed in their own place.”

“Where did you learn to shoot?”

“My father. He’s a hunter and trapper, a line of work I devoutly hope to follow him in.”

“Have you ever used a scope with a rifle, Nomonkov?”

“Never even seen a scope on a rifle, sir, though I’ve heard about them. Probably don’t need one, anyway.”

“Why is that?”

Instead of answering, the rifleman just started scanning around the sky. Finally, he pointed and asked, “Sir, do you see that hawk up there?”

The captain looked, indeed, he concentrated, but finally, shaking his head, had to admit, “Nothing.”

“I do see him, sir. As near as I can tell I can see about twice as far as any other man or maybe a touch more. Certainly I can see clearly twice as far as anyone I ever met… except for my mother, who is like me.”

“Hmmm,” mused the captain, “if you can see that well without a scope, I wonder—indeed, I marvel—at the thought of what you can see with one.

“Still, shooting’s not about just eyesight. What’s your best position to shoot from?”

The part-Tatar shrugged. “I’m compact. Pretty solid. Doesn’t make all that much difference, though standing supported is best by a little.”

“Is your rifle clear?”

“Yes, sir. Of course. They don’t let us off the range with loaded rifles.”

“Cock it then, please, and take up a kneeling unsupported firing position.”

When Nomonkov had done so, the captain took a small coin from his pocket, an 1898 copper half kopek, and laid it on the barrel. The captain also took another one in his hand.

“Now squeeze off the trigger.”

When the Guardsman had done so, the coin was still sitting, unmoving, atop the rifle’s barrel.

“Do it again,” Cherimisov ordered. He was sure this would cause Nomonkov to knock the coin off the barrel, but, no, it remained where it was throughout the manipulation of the bolt and stayed there again when the trigger was squeezed off.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Never seen anyone who can re-cock a bolt action rifle and still keep it that steady.”

“Sir, I learned that trick from my father, too.”

That raised a laugh. “Indeed? Well, let’s go find your commander or Podpraporshchik Mayevsky. You are now officially in the Grenadier Company.

“Oh, and how’s your night vision?”

“Quite good really, compared to most, sir, but not up there with my day vision.”

Baluyev being occupied with grenade development, and Mayevsky supervising the range, made the transfer simple, if not easy. The latter man glared at Cherimisov with his one remaining eye, and insisted there’d be hell to pay if the captain tried to “steal our best shot. I won’t stand for it sir. The company commander won’t stand for it either. It’s an outrage! It’s just bloody theft! It’s—”

“An order from Kostyshakov,” interrupted the captain. “Mine, once formed, is the company that goes in to rescue the royal family. I get my pick of manpower because of that. But relax, Top; I’ll go and steal my other sniper from Second or Third Company.”

“Fuck!”

Which really doesn’t get me that far, Cherimisov thought. I can do this with the snipers and my two future Lewis gunners, and their crews. But there’s still no test for the rank and file. So how do I handle this?

“All right, Cherimisov, all right, THINK, for God’s sake.”

We want toughness and determination; that seems obvious. All right, I go to Kostyshakov and request a weekly road march, the first one to be hard and the subsequent ones to be progressively harder still. That whittles the numbers down to what? Say sixty percent that never falter? Okay, so within a month or so, I’m down to maybe three or four hundred to choose from. “The people who are with thee are yet too many.” But, don’t forget that some who falter are not weak. Remember to look at their feet at the end; the man with eighty or ninety percent bleeding blisters on each foot but can keep up past the thirty versta point has more toughness than the one who can but whose feet are fine.

Soooo… fine, when we’ve identified the tough ones, we select out from them the inept, the clumsy, the poor shots, the stupid. Maybe fifty more, then, that don’t make the cut.

Past that, we look for courage, but how? A nasty obstacle course, when we finish building one, might do. Moving forward under low fire from the heavy machine guns might help. But it’s got to be low fire, just a few feet above the earth, to make it worthwhile. We may lose someone. And… this is even riskier, maybe a count of three delay on using their grenades? No, not three… no, yes, three, maybe even four, because they’ll count faster than light.

And then we ask—sure, why not just ask?—who wants to be in on the rescue. I can talk up the risks, both in training and in the execution. So let’s let them select for who has what we’ve looking for.

And then…

Officers’ Mess Tent, Camp Budapest

The food was still nothing special… except that in terms of the terrible hardships of the Great War it was special. Kostyshakov’s perforated buttocks were healed. Better, the men had put on an average of fifteen pounds, more or less evenly split between fat and muscle.

“Sir,” Cherimisov told Kostyshakov, “at the end, if we’ve got too many, we just put them in the ring and let them fight over it.”

“Now that’s an interesting approach,” Daniil said. “Maybe. Let me add one more thing. Once we’ve got everyone qualified, we’re going to be having each of the rifle companies undertake a long series of live fire exercises. That should help find the witless and identify the courageous.

“Also, at this point I’m beginning to doubt the Germans are going to come through with their machine pistols. In that case, the assault platoons will be going in with flash and stun grenades and fixed bayonets, no ammunition except in their pouches. So pay attention to the ones who do well and poorly on the bayonet assault course, once we’re done with that.

“And one other thing; maybe, just maybe, we’re doing this wrong and we should think about some utterly miserable, very hard, gut-testing selection course before we do anything else.”

Cherimisov spread some ersatz butter on a piece of toast while thinking that over. Looking at the butter killed any urge to smile he might have felt. “Well… yes, sir, it has some things to recommend it. I’ve given it some thought. But who runs it? Take a couple of weeks just to set it up and get the testers ready… if they can be gotten ready. After all, while we have some good noncoms and officers, they’re all new to this, same as us.”

“I think you can do it in less time,” Daniil said. “I think you can set up a selection course in a week. We just need to identify, oh, your four lieutenants, your first sergeant, three Feldfebels, and maybe a couple of sergeants.”

“I already know who I want for lieutenants and Feldfebels, sir. And for first sergeant I want Mayevsky out of First Company.”

“Mayevsky? Jesus, won’t Baluyev scream over that one?”

Range V (Grenades), Camp Budapest

As it turned out, it hadn’t been as easy as all that. Certainly Romeyko had managed, with Weber’s help, to produce cardboard, wax, and a drill, as well as a broad metal bit for the drill. So far, so good.

The first problem had been that drilling tended to deform the casing. Their first attempt at fixing this, carving and putting into each casing a wooden mandrel, had worked, well enough, anyway, but the process of drilling destroyed each mandrel produced, such that they’d need a fresh one for each grenade to be modified. Baluyev really didn’t think there was time for that.

Smirnov had been the one to figure that problem out, in the form of, “We’re fucking idiots—begging your pardon, sir—but we don’t need to be whittling on wood. Every grenade comes with its own mandrel, in the TNT that’s been cast into it. We just need to drill them before we unscrew the heads.”

That had, in fact, worked well. While the TNT was not especially hard, it was also not especially compressible and had nowhere to go.

The old grenades had just been emptied of flash powder and exploded, to prevent confusion.

After perforating the casings and then unscrewing them from the grenades’ handles, the next step was cutting away the excess TNT. It was time consuming, but not that hard. What it was, though, was inherently sloppy and uneven, as the TNT was rather difficult to get out of the casing once it had been drilled.

What that had meant was that the top of the casing had to be completely cut away, to be replaced by more cardboard.

“Not a problem,” Baluyev had pronounced. “The way they’re carried remaining vertical will protect the top from rough handling… enough.”

Still, it had taken an hour to cut away enough TNT from one grenade to add the flash powder.

“Too long,” the lieutenant finally said. “Too long and too hard.

“Ideally,” he continued, “we’d melt the explosive out, then recast it in smaller cylinders. But…”

“I’ve heard the fumes are stone killers, sir,” said Poletov.

Nodding soberly, Baluyev replied, “I’ve heard the same thing; munitions workers turning yellow as canaries and take all kinds of damage to some organs. No melting and recasting.”

Smirnov offered a possible solution. “What if we take it all out, sir, then pulverize it and make a mix of TNT and flash powder? We can make a double wall of waxed cardboard, one right up against the holed metal casing, one inside to hold just the right quantity of TNT and flash powder. And we’ll save time not having to cut the top off. We hold the top of the inner tube in place with poured wax, just a little. The detonator section holds the bottom in place.”

“Let’s give that a try, then,” Baluyev agreed.

They’d nicknamed the pig Matilda, hence Baluyev’s, “Stop complaining, Matilda, this may hurt a little but it’s better than being turned into chops, ribs, and salo.”

What Matilda thought about this was inscrutable. Besides, she was busy consuming the mush they’d given her.

“Grenade One,” Baluyev announced to the recorder, Poletov.

“One lot, two dolya powdered TNT,” the man answered, “two lot, four dolya flash powder.”

Again, the lieutenant unscrewed the cap, letting the porcelain ball fall out. He gave the ball a sharp yank, moving the grenade’s roughened steel rod through its friction-sensitive igniter, thus torching off the short fuse.

Baluyev wasn’t, at this point, especially interested in letting the fuse burn down while the grenade was in his hand. He immediately tossed it around the corner to where Matilda stood, munching her mush.

It seemed longer, but it was only about four seconds before the party was rewarded with a satisfying, but not catastrophic, boom and bright flash.

Baluyev tore around the corner to see a very dazed pig, staggering aimlessly. The pig paid him no attention at all.

Good, at least temporarily blinded, but where’s the grenade? It’s gone. Shattered? Just because the pig isn’t bleeding doesn’t mean…

“Hey, sir,” said Smirnov from the lip of the trench, above, “the grenade got knocked up here.” He held it up to demonstrate that, “The casing is still entirely intact.”

“Hmmm… must have been greater resistance to the blast underneath that overcame the otherwise equivalent blast above. Still, what works, works.”

“Hey, sir, do you think we can get a reprieve for Matilda for her services to the army, the state, and the tsar?”

“Sadly not. It’s a cruel world and Kostyshakov informs me he’s planning a forced march for Saturday. The men will need what our girl here can offer. We can only remember her, with gratitude, in our prayers.

“And as long as we’re on the subject, Smirnov, and since you brought it up, kindly leash her and walk her back to Feldwebel Taenzler, would you? Good lad.”

Camp Budapest

Corporal Vasenkov took off his visored cap and ran his fingers through the sparse hair sprouting from his mostly bare scalp. He had never been a huge fan of hard marching, fast, and under heavy packs. He was even less enthusiastic given that he’d be marching in German boots, at this stage of the war footgear of even less than secondary quality, and not especially made for hard marching, given the stasis of the trenches to the west.

But, thought the corporal and secret communist, this will have something to do with the selection of men for the grenadier company, while the grenadier company is where I need to be, where the revolution needs me to be.

Sergeant Major Blagov walked the line, reminding the soldiery that, “This is going to be a stone bitch, people. Check your portyanki now, while you can.”

At that, perhaps half the troops pulled off their boots and checked—and in a few cases rewrapped—their foot wrappings.

Each man also had the makings of a full pack currently laid out on their ground sheets. The squad leaders and platoon sergeants checked, but no one was allowed to repack until either one of the two sergeants major, their own company first sergeant, or one of the officers had inspected two men from each squad. The packs wouldn’t have been unbearable except that, in addition, thirty-five pounds of rock were to be added to each pack. The rocks, too, sat on the ground sheet. They would be weighed for each man when the march was over.

“Vicious imperialist foolishness” is what I call it, thought Vasenkov, as he carefully repacked to put as much softness as possible between the rocks and what would otherwise have been the skin of his back. It’s the petty need for small men to show the world their authority.

Worse, as if the rocks weren’t enough, the men were also marching with their Lewis guns, and with the various support sections dragging, for example, the light infantry cannon and the heavy Maxim machine guns, while the poor bloody engineers had four flamethrowers—the newest portable German kind—“Wechselapparat,” that had the donut-shaped fuel tanks with a sphere of compressed air in the middle, to port along.

And then came the dreaded cry, “On your feet, gentlemen; ruck up, and fall in.”

Tsarist swine, thought Vasenkov, as he pushed his own slender frame upright.

The first four versta were easy. They were intended to be easy, more of a stretching exercise and chance for the portyanki to move than a test of character. When those were done, and the men feeling fairly good about it, Kostyshakov called a halt. Once again the sergeant major trooped the line with, “Boots off. Noncoms check your men’s feet. No time to fuck around. Rewrap if they need it. Ten minutes only… Boots off. Noncoms…”

Twenty-four more versta, a full fifteen miles, and five hours later, with no more breaks, the men marched into camp, footsore—bleeding a bit in most cases, with aching backs, sweaty despite the winter cold, and utterly miserable.

Not that everyone made it, no. A full twenty percent, or perhaps a few more, had fallen behind, leaving the others to have to spend even more time porting and dragging the heavy equipment. Many of those who’d fallen out would find themselves with the replacement detachment.

But not Vasenkov. He marched into camp with the rest, mentally cursing the leadership every step of the way.

“Well done,” Kostyshakov cheered the men who made it as they staggered in.

Swine, thought Vasenkov.