Siberian Wizard

 

Copyright

Siberian Wizard

Copyright © 2017, renewed 2023, by Jack L Knapp

Cover by Mia Darien

Stock photos from Fotolia.com

 

All rights reserved. This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Disclaimer: the persons and events depicted herein are the product of the author's imagination. No resemblance to actual persons or events is intended.

Product names, brands, or other trademarks referred to within this book are the property of the respective trademark holders. No association between the author and the trademark holder is expressed or implied. Nor does the use of such imply an endorsement by the author of the product, trademark, or trademark holder.

 

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Book Five, the Wizards Series

Siberian Wizard

A Paranormal Thriller

 

By Jack L Knapp

 

 

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Angel

Books by the author:

 

Prologue

Ray was worried.

Had T been killed? It seemed impossible, and yet...

What made the newspaper article worrisome was that Tagliaferro, the man reported killed, had been one of T's aliases. And he alone had not returned from the past. He was phenomenally strong, but could even he survive a lightning bolt? Someone had been there, that much was clear from reading the article, but after the lightning strike there was no sign of the man. People who had been there during the storm thought his body might have washed into the Sound.

But reading the article a third time wouldn't make things any clearer. Ray cleared his screen and joined Ana Maria and Shezzie on the patio. His gloomy mood today called for scotch.

Shezzie noticed.

Despite Ray's silence, there was no hiding his concern. Shezzie was a not only a strong telepath, she possessed a high sense of empathy and Ana Maria, Ray's domestic partner, was almost as strong. Neither missed what Ray had just done; the tumbler, which had moments ago held a good four fingers of scotch, was now half empty.

"You brought Libby back, Ray. Don't blame yourself; T made his own decision," said Shezzie gently.

"Yeah, but he only went back in the first place because Libby needed help! In his place, I wouldn't have let someone else take the risks either."

"His choice, Ray," Shezzie insisted. "Was your trip dangerous?"

"Maybe. I don't know, it could have been, but it wasn't particularly dangerous except for not being sure any of us would ever get back. But I agreed with T, we couldn't abandon Libby. For all her abilities, she's still a kid. As to how I found her, I finally thought of taking short teleports and trying to comm her as soon as I got where I was going. She answered and we joined up. That's when I got to wondering if changing direction would make a difference. It worked. I'm pretty sure now that teleporting interacts with the Earth's magnetic field. Going west took me farther into the past and going east brought us home. Although it's possible we were being pulled back, which is what Shorty thinks."

"I don't understand how direction could be important, but then again I don't really understand how we do the things we do! Physics doesn't have the answer," confessed Shezzie.

"No," agreed Ray. "Sometimes I wonder whether the magnetic field is as important as T believed, but it's all we've got and it's not as if anyone is experimenting. Q.E.D; Reversing direction reversed our movement in time. It worked. But next time, who knows?"

"We can't tell anyone," Shezzie agreed. "I don't suppose it matters, though. The abilities are spreading whether we like it or not, and sooner or later, we'll have to go public. I'm surprised we've been able to hide this long! But I'm afraid of what might happen if others started traveling into the past."

"It might be worse than you think," Ray said thoughtfully. "Suppose somebody from the 19th Century had learned to read minds just from being around me? Or learned how to teleport when I did? I understood the possibility of causing a time paradox, but I wasn't willing to leave Libby back there. And to be honest, I wanted to come back too, so I took a chance and it doesn't seem to have made a difference. If anyone developed Talent from being around Libby or me, it never made the papers."

***

A faint breeze stirred the tall conifers. A heavyset man dressed in rough clothing glanced up at the tall tree. Drawing back his axe, he swung again, a powerful blow driven by the man's thick muscles. Again and again he struck, alternating his blows so that wedge-shaped chips popped free from the cut.

A reddish light, followed by a light pop, interrupted the steady chopping. The woodcutter swore in Russian and froze, axe upright. Had lightning struck the tree? The low-hanging clouds didn't look stormy, but still, who could say what the weather might do? That flash of red had come from the north...

Across the clearing stood a man dressed only in tattered remnants of clothing. Most of his coat was gone, the collar no more than a fragment and the sleeves missing entirely. The body of the coat gaped, revealing a vest that was in slightly better shape. The shirt had also suffered damage and most of the man’s hair appeared to have been singed off.

Had he been in a fire? But no, that didn't seem right. Except for a torn knee, his trousers appeared to have suffered little damage. A shoe was missing and the other was totally unsuited for walking in the forest. Where had he come from?

“Kto ty? Otkuda ty priyekhal?"

The strange man looked back, no sign of comprehension on his face.

“Ty idiot? The woodsman's tone revealed his exasperation.

The man's expression changed. It appeared he had understood at least some of the words.

“I...do you speak English?”

The astonished Russian lowered his axe.

“Angliyskiy?”

The stranger blinked, trying to understand the unfamiliar word. “Not English. That doesn't sound right. I’m...American, I think.”

“Amerikanskaya?”

The man nodded and spoke one of his few words of Russian. "Da."

***

The Russian stood his axe by the door and called out to someone inside the log house. A heavyset woman dressed in a long, loose skirt and wearing an apron hurried out in response and gaped at the stranger. “Is he a soldier, Mischa?” Her voice showed concern.

“I don’t think so, Mother. He has no uniform, but that doesn’t mean much. A lot of Semenov’s soldiers don’t wear uniforms. They all have guns, though, and this one doesn’t.”

“I will send for your father," the woman decided. "He will know what to do. Ekaterina, go to the fields and bring your papa!”

An older man, heavily bearded, arrived ten minutes later, accompanied by the young girl who’d gone to fetch him. He was dressed much as the woodsman and there was a distinct family resemblance. The older man's beard was as dark as his son's, except for streaks of gray. He man took in the scene at a glance. “Mischa, you should not have brought him here! If he’s one of Kolchak’s men and Semenov finds him here, they will kill us. If he comes from Semenov, Kolchak’s soldiers will kill us, and even if he's a Bolshevik, he could bring the Cossack soldiers on us and then they would take you away. We would starve if they didn’t kill us first. This man is dangerous; I say we kill him and bury the body in the swamp!”

“Father, he has done us no harm! Look, he seems dazed and he does not understand Russian! He cannot be a Bolshevik and he does not look like a Cossack.”

“That does not matter! Do we not owe it to ourselves to survive? We owe this stranger nothing!”

Mischa shook his head. “Father, we will offer him soup. It is time for dinner, I am hungry, you are too. Mother has made soup, there will be enough for all. I will decide what to do after we eat. Come, we will take the man inside and give him food. It is what we have always done, be hospitable to strangers.”

The older man frowned. “Mark my words, nothing good can come of this! Look how ragged he is! He's no more than a beggar who will eat us out of house and home!”

“Father, I will decide." Mischa's voice was respectful but stubborn. "I respect your words, but we have our traditions! Sometimes I think it is all the revolution has left to us. Only the food we grow ourselves or gather from the forest is left, and the Bolsheviks will take that if they learn we have it. The stranger will share and after we've had our soup, we will speak again.”

The old man, unconvinced, muttered as he led the way inside. Mischa beckoned and the stranger followed. A rude table, small but sturdy, stood beside a wood-burning stove. A large pot simmered on the stove, and a hand-carved wooden ladle hung nearby from a peg on the wall. The woman dished up the soup, ensuring that the stranger got a full bowl. The family muttered and crossed themselves before eating.

“Pork? This contains pork, doesn’t it?”

But the stranger's words were no more than nonsense. The family ignored him and ate, wiping the bowls clean with slabs of heavy dark bread thickly spread with butter. Cups of tea, sweetened with honey, followed the meal. The stranger noticed that the soup pot was empty and that there was no more tea in the teapot. Even the samovar had been set aside. The family was obviously very poor, and yet they had shared what they had. “Thank you, ma’am. I was hungry. I don’t know who you are, but I get the idea you folks aren’t well off. Would it offend you if I offered to pay? I think you need the money more than I do.”

The man reached for the last button on his shirt and opened it, losing the button as the thread snapped. Sighing, he fumbled open a pocket on the belt he wore beneath the shirt. Taking out a coin, he laid it on the table, then pushed it toward the woman, looking at her expectantly.

“Mother, that is...is that gold?”

“I think it must be," the old woman whispered. "But it is not Russian. Will we get in trouble for having it?”

“We can get in trouble for drinking tea, Mother!" Mischa said. "Take that and hide it, quick!”

“Mischa, he may have more of those things! I still say we should kill him and hide the body, but first we look beneath his clothing!”

“Father, I have decided! I will leave as soon as we are finished. Mother, make up a packet of food. I will be back tomorrow.”

“Mischa, take your axe," urged the older man. "After you kill the stranger, search his body for the rest of his gold. Then bury the body deep so the wolves don’t dig it up.”

“Father, I won’t kill him!one I’m going to turn him over to the soldiers.”

“Mischa, they will kill him and probably kill you too! Semenov’s guerrillas are beasts!” The old man appeared panic-stricken.

“I will not give him to Semenoff's men, Father.”

“The Bolsheviks are almost as bad, Mischa. They’re all murderers, too lazy to work!”

“I will take him to the foreigners, Father.”

“There are others like this one? In Siberia?”

“Yes, Father, Americans like this man, and also many more strangers. The Americans build a railroad, but the Chinese, Japanese, Czechs, and English have come too. This is what the revolution has done. Russia is overrun with foreigners!”

“Won’t they kill you, Mischa? How can we trust foreigners?”

“I will not trust them, Father. I will take this man to them and let them decide what to do with him. Perhaps they will give me food or maybe a new shovel. They might even give me a gun, so that if the Cossacks come I can shoot them.”

***

The American struggled, unable to match Mischa's pace. Mischa patiently waited until he caught up. Perhaps the boots, a pair Mischa had outgrown several years before, were not a good fit.

They crossed railroad tracks late that afternoon. Two hours later, they came to a cleared space that was almost half a mile across. In the center stood a wall made of upright tree trunks, slightly taller than six feet.

Ahead was a pair of sturdy gates that met in the middle. The wall curved away on each side. In appearance, except for the trench surrounding the wall, the fort would have looked at home in the old American west.

“First Sergeant, you better come see this! There’s a Russian at the gate and he’s got somebody with him. The other fellow looks like he’s been run over by a truck or something!”

“Dammit, Heintzelman, can’t you make a decision for yourself? You’re a corporal now!”

“Want me to just shoot these two?”

“Hell no! Well, not unless they’ve got guns. Hang on, I’ll be right there.” The First Sergeant, judging by the stripes on his sleeve, set down the cup of coffee and picked up his trench shotgun. “Heintzelman says there are a couple of Russians at the gate. I’ll be right back, but you three pick up your rifles and watch what happens. Smithers, if this is some kind of trick, you'll be sorry you were ever born!"

“It's not, Top,” said the mortified Smithers. "It's just like I told you."

“Back me up, Heintzelman. Be ready, but don’t shoot unless I do.”

“Me, First Sergeant? Can’t I do better if I stay behind cover?”

“With me, Heintzelman. That’s why they pay you the big money now. Or will, one of these days.”

“Shit, I should’a stayed a private!”

The ragged man with the Russian heard this exchange. “Are you Americans?”

“Son of a gun, this character speaks English!” exclaimed Smithers.

“Well, sort of. It don’t sound like Boston English, so maybe he’s with that English regiment that’s up north of us,” suggested Heintzelman.

“We’re Americans. Are you English?” The First Sergeant looked doubtful, then continued. “You’re not a Czech, are you?”

“No, I’m pretty sure I’m American. What are you doing here? Isn’t this Russia?”

“I guess you could call it that. We’re part of the AEF-S, Army troops assigned to Siberia.”

“I don't think I knew that there were Americans here! But I don’t remember much of anything. I don’t even know how I got here! But I found this man, and he fed me and brought me here. The fur coat and cap are his, the boots too.”

“I guess we’ll take charge of you then. Heintzelman, you speak Russian, more than I do, anyway. Tell that fellow thanks and send him on his way.”

“Okay, Sarge.” Heintzelman rattled off a string of words and the Russian answered back. “Top, he says he's hungry. He also wants to know if we can give him a shovel for finding the American? If we don’t have a shovel, can we give him a rifle?”

“Aye, we’ll be giving him both! Take one of the extra rifles in the lieutenant's hut. We'll replace it from that shipment the general is refusing to turn over to Semenoff. Ammo too, give him a case if he’s willing to carry it. He does look hungry, so have the cooks feed him too before you send him on his way.”

“Wait a minute. I’ve got something for him too.” The stranger pulled out two coins from a money belt and handed them to the delighted Mischa.

“Are you part of the 31st Infantry, Buddy? Or maybe the Russian Railroad Service Corps?" Smithers asked. "They’re Americans.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Wouldn’t I remember if I was?”

“Maybe not," Heintzelman said. "More than one good man has gone crazy over here! It’s the ass end of the world, Chum. Why the hell President Wilson ever decided we should be sent here is beyond me! Maybe he’s crazy too. It was bad enough, heading for France to be part of the Ass End Foremost, but Siberia? We just this past Christmas got our wool uniforms!"

“You can give that Russian back his coat and hat," decided Mac. "They're mostly so poor that they need everything they've got, not to mention that one probably has cooties. You come with me, we’ll get you a uniform. I reckon we can get you a rifle too. In this part of the world you need a gun of some kind! You ever shoot a rifle? The Springfield is guaranteed to put a Cossack down if you hit him in the right place, and when it does he won’t be getting up again.”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“You got a name, Buddy?”

“I think so. I would have to, wouldn't I? But I don’t remember what it is.”

***

“Major, I’ve got a fellow here who says he doesn’t remember his name. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, just some scorched rags. Lucky he wasn’t caught out overnight! He’d have got pretty damned cold if a bear didn’t get him first! Anyway, he says he’s American and I believe him. He sounds like us, some of us anyway. Maybe he’s from Texas or someplace like that. He doesn't sound eastern.”

“One of ours, Lieutenant?”

“Not as far as I can tell, Sir. Like I said, he wasn’t wearing a uniform when he showed up. He was wearing borrowed Russian clothes over a ragged coat with a label inside that said New York. You want I should send him on to Vladivostok?”

The major drummed his fingers on the desk and thought. “Could he be one of those railroad people?”

“I don’t think so. He was surprised to find us here, so that makes me think he’s not one of our missing or killed in action, body not recovered, guys. He couldn’t remember his name, but when I tried to use letters to see if anything jogged his memory he said 't' sounded familiar. So maybe his name starts with a T. Except for not remembering his name, he seems pretty sharp.”

“Didn’t the 2nd Battalion lose a Corporal Tyler last month? They never found the body, so they reported him KIA-BNR. He could be Tyler, or one of the other people we never got back. Let me think for a minute.”

The major took a full minute and more. Finally, he decided. “He could be Tyler. Any sign of recent wounds?

“None I saw. Most soldiers pick up scrapes here and there, but if he’s got any wounds or scars I didn’t see them.”

“The important thing is he's American, or at least he thinks he is, so we can't just tell him to hit the road. At the same time, we can't keep feeding him if he's not on the morning report. Tell you what, send him into Vladivostok and let the doctor examine him. If he pronounces him fit for duty, ask him if he's willing to enlist and point out that if he doesn't, he's on his own. Either way, that should work, and we can always discharge him later if we find out he's English or a civilian. But don’t make him a corporal, at least not yet. Let’s see how he does first. He might be Tyler, or for all we know he might be Tippecanoe!”

The First Sergeant, who had accompanied the lieutenant, smiled at the joke, saluted, and went off to follow his orders. He was a happy man; casualties hadn’t been replaced, meaning the work had been shared among fewer men. The ones in hospital might come back at some point, assuming they got over the cholera, but in the meantime, one more warm body would help. And if the new soldier didn’t know how to soldier, well, teaching him would be just the thing for Corporal Heintzelman! About time that slacker earned his new stripes!

But after that, assign him to a veteran NCO who knew the ropes. Two inexperienced people in the same squad? No, that was a recipe for disaster, even though it might be necessary when a unit was in the lines.

Aye, Corporal O'Brien could certainly use him!

 

Chapter One

The squad went to ground as soon as they heard the shot. The first bang was followed by several more as the riflemen sought better cover, clicked off safeties, and waited. The Chauchat automatic rifle chattered briefly, then fell silent. Private Tyler glanced at Private Smithers, who lay sprawled half-atop the weapon.

"Tyler! Get that gun into action, now!"

"I'm on it, Corporal!" Tyler rolled over three times, that being the fastest way to reach Smithers. Dragging the weapon from beneath the man's unconscious form, he fitted the stock into his shoulder and looked for a target. But there was no sign of life in the fringe of bushes that lined the far rim of the arroyo.

"Shoot, Tyler!"

Corporal O'Brien fitted a clip of five cartridges to the open breech of his Springfield and pressed down firmly, stripping the rounds into the rifle's magazine. Chambering a round, he fired at the base of a bush that showed a faint trace of smoke. Moments later, Tyler's Chauchat joined in, the bullet strikes kicking up dust as they pocked the ground from left to right.

A cloth hat tumbled out from behind the bush, followed moments later by the body of a man. Tyler thumbed the release, dropping the depleted magazine. He fumbled a replacement from the pouch at Smithers' waist, slid it into the weapon's well, and cycled the bolt to feed a round into the chamber. Smithers groaned and tried to sit up, then fell back.

Tyler watched the far side of the arroyo. But there were no more targets and the shooting had stopped. He looked deeper into the trees beyond the screening brush. Nothing stirred.

Thirty yards to the squad's left stood the sturdy wooden railroad bridge they'd come to check out. If there was damage, nothing showed from where they had gone to ground. Across the ravine, Tyler noticed that the man he'd shot looked strange. Something was wrong with his head. He suddenly realized that one of his bullets had smashed the man's jaw, knocking it askew before penetrating the skull.

"We'll wait a while before we take a look." Corporal O'Brien's voice was calm. "Tyler, check on Smithers."

"He's alive, Corporal. Got a lump on his skull and he's bleeding. I think he's waking up."

"Then put a bandage over the wound! His bandage, not yours. That'll have to do until we get back to camp."

Tyler, usually called T by his squad-mates, eased the compress into position and tied it in place. Glancing again at the dead man, T remembered that today was an occasion of sorts. He'd joined the US Army's American Expeditionary Force in Siberia just three months ago.

***

“Where in the world did you dig that one up, First Sergeant?”

“The major handed him to me as a gift and I immediately thought of you, Corporal. Now I know you're convinced I hate your guts, but that’s not true. No indeed, I thanked the major and immediately thought of you. Mac, says I, Corporal O'Brien is just the boy to make Private Tyler into a soldier I can be proud of! After all, didn’t I take Private O'Brien and make him a soldier? One that major Herne could promote to corporal and trust to lead my First Squad?”

“Some squad, Sarge! 'Tis me and four privates fresh off the boat! And now, Tyler! He fits right in. He's clumsy as Paddy’s pig, so he is, and in poor shape to boot! We but hiked down to the railroad, no more than five miles it was, and he was puffing like...well, I thought the train was coming, that I did! I doubt the man’s ever done an honest day’s work in his life! I handed him a maul and told him to reseat a loose rail spike, but somehow, he managed to break the handle! He's strong, I'll give him that, but no endurance to speak of. He’s fair useless and next week I’ve got to take him to the rifle range! He knows how to march in step, I'll give him that much, but better 'twould have been if Heintzelman had taught him to shoot!”

“Train him, me boy, train him! Just think, now you’ve got five men in your squad, and any day the major's going to send a letter up to regiment mentioning your name for sergeant. ‘Tis a compliment to me, it is.” The burly first sergeant’s eyes twinkled at the disgruntled corporal.

“Now if ye’re done drinking that excellent Army coffee and crying on me shoulder, how about being off and earning that excellent salary that the Army will pay you one of these days?”

“What pay? We haven’t been paid for three months! I think old Black Jack sent us to Russia and then forgot about us!”

“Don’t ye fret, lad. Doesn’t the Army feed you well and give you a warm blanket to sleep under? And aren’t you able to cut the finest spruce tips for a soft bed at night? Why, you’re living better than you ever did in the ooold country!” The sergeant’s voice changed. “Now suppose you round up that miscreant and the other four and get out on the square. I want to see them properly executing the manual of arms for the Springfield rifle by sundown, or you can lead them in another round of drill after dark. Do ye take my meaning, Corporal?”

Corporal O’Brien sighed and stood up. “I’ll be about it, but ye’re a hard man, Mac MacAuliffe, that ye are.” The corporal picked up his Springfield, checked that the safety was on by habit, then shouldered the piece as he left the hut. He squared his campaign hat and immediately bawled out a command. “Aw right, you people! Form up and try to look like soljers, even though you’re a disgrace to the uniform! You’ll never be soldiers, but as God’s my witness, you’ll look enough like one to fool someone from a distance by the time I’m through with yez!”

Tyler was the first to take position. He muttered to Private Dyson as the corporal approached the three. “Is he always like this?”

“Naw. Sometimes he’s mad at us. You can tell by the way he talks. When he gets upset, that brogue is plumb hard to understand!”

"Shut your gob, Dyson! And Tyler, there'll be no more hiding from honest work! You're assigned to First Squad now and you'll work, or I'll know the reason why!"

***

But three months later, Corporal O'Brien's opinion of Tyler had changed.

"T'was a fair bit of shooting, Tyler. How's Smithers doing?" Corporal O'Brien's voice was soft, barely louder than a whisper.

Tyler matched the corporal's volume. "Says he's all right, Corporal. You still intend to cross that bridge?"

"And didn't First Sergeant MacAuliffe himself order me to? He'd be disappointed if I didn't, and Mac MacAuliffe is not the man you want to disappoint. I'll give it half an hour more, and then we're heading across, watching the rails in case the guerrillas decided to pull a few spikes before we got here. They were up to something, no reason for them to be here otherwise."

"Suggestion, Corporal. How about I move down the arroyo a ways and cross over before you move onto the bridge? I'll just have a look and if that far side's clear, I'll signal. But be careful; I'd hate to get shot by accident."

"'Tis too chancy! If anybody's over there, they might spot you as soon as you start moving."

"There's enough underbrush to hide me," Tyler argued, "and they won't be watching if you and the others keep them busy. Fire a shot every couple of minutes and stop in...twenty minutes, I should be in position by then. As soon as you stop, I'll sneak up to where that one was hiding. They're not really soldiers, they're bandits for the most part, and they'll run as soon as I start firing. "

"We'll keep them busy, then. Are ye sure you want to try this alone? I could send Dyson with you."

"I'll make less noise alone. He has big feet."

"That he does," chuckled O'Brien, "and he's not all that careful where he puts them. Go ahead, then. We'll shoot up the bushes for twenty minutes. Tell you what, just before we stop, I'll have Smithers burn through a full magazine. I wish I had somebody else to send with you, but..."

"Yeah. Too bad McKinney caught the flu. He's pretty good in the woods."

"That he is. Well, lad, 'twas your idea, so off you go. We'll do our bit." Corporal O'Brien studied the far wall for a moment, then turned to voice one last caution to Private Tyler.

But he was gone, leaving no sign that he'd been there at all. O'Brien's worry lines eased; Tyler might just be as good in the woods as he thought he was. Low-crawling, O'Brien worked his way over to Private Smithers. "I want you to put a few rounds into the bushes, starting with that bush to the right of the dead man. 'Tis the one with the white flowers. And when I signal, change magazines. I'm going to want you to lay down a full magazine just above the edge of the ravine. No more shooting after that unless I tell you. Don't bother with that bush to the left of the body; if anyone else was there, you can bet he's gone by now."

"I see it, Corporal. Looks like a rhododendron, doesn't it?"

"I don't care if it looks like yer Aunt Sally, Smithers! Put a short burst at the base of it!"

"I don't have an Aunt Sally, Corporal."

Corporal O'Brien sighed. "Five shot burst, Smithers. If you can't control that gun, I'll give it to Private Tyler. You can be his ammo bearer!"

The Chauchat chattered briefly and the 'rhododendron' fell, cut through.

"Better, Smithers, better. Now let's be moving yer gun to the left. See that scrubby thing that looks like a young spruce?"

***

"Ye killed two of the bastards, Patrick? And what did you do with the bodies?"

"Dumped them in the arroyo, Mac, and destroyed their rifles. Old Moisins they were, not worth bringing in. I smashed the receivers and bent the barrels around a tree. The bolts I brought back; ye can have them for souvenirs."

"I'll send them up to battalion, that I will," First Sergeant Mac decided. "That intelligence lieutenant swears Semenoff's troops are a hundred miles west of here, so he does, and I'll let him argue with the evidence. No damage to the bridge?"

"None. We checked it over, nothing to worry about. Well, other than that it was built by Russians, not honest Irishmen."

"How did Private Tyler do?"

"Acted like a veteran, so he did, and 'twas himself that volunteered to clear the far side of the arroyo. That's where he shot the second one. Both shot in the head, Mac. He's as good a marksman as I've ever seen. Got a positive talent for it, he has. It's like he knows where the bullet's going to go."

"Good man to have around, then. Well, finish yer coffee and see to your men, Patrick. I'll be sure to mention your name when I telephone the Colonel."

"Telephone the Colonel, eh? Ye wouldn't be making fun of yer favorite corporal, now would ye?"

"'Twas bragging about our new telephone I was, Patrick! But I've been with the Colonel a fair few years now, since before the war. He'll want to know about the two guerrillas yer man Tyler shot."

"Then how about asking him if we're ever going to get paid when you pay your respects?"

"On your way, Patrick O'Brien."

***

"Sir, we're trying to play catch up without enough players on the field!"

Colonel Morrow commanded the 27th Infantry Regiment, newly-nicknamed the Wolfhounds. He had brought with him to the meeting an intelligence summary prepared by Major David Barrows, temporarily loaned to the AEF-S, which had been supplemented by a more-extensive intelligence appraisal from his own intelligence officer, Captain F.F. Meere. He had handed those to the general after reporting, who had laid them on his desk.

"Did you read my proclamation to the Russian People, Colonel?" asked General Graves.

"Yes, Sir."

"That's all, Colonel? Just 'Yes, Sir'? And stand at ease. Better yet, have yourself a cup of coffee. Brandy with it?"

The colonel shook his head. "Sir, I answered the general's question. It's not for me to comment on the general's proclamation."

General Graves chuckled. "I didn't like it all that much myself, but I don't have a lot of choice. Take a lesson, Colonel. One day, you'll be a general yourself and you'll be in a situation something like I'm in. I wrote the proclamation because that's what President Wilson wants me to do. The War Department has different ideas, and so does the State Department, and for my sins I'm responsible for those too. I'll get to that in a minute. I don't have nearly enough troops to start with, and they're spread out from Archangelsk to Vladivostok. Total, just slightly more than 7000 officers and men. The northern detachment is under British command, and when they're not guarding the supply dumps, they're fighting the Bolsheviks. Down here, we're trying to be nice to the Bolsheviks because they're fighting Semenoff's army!

"Semenoff was being paid by the British up until a couple of months ago. He used the money to recruit and pay his troops, but when he ran short of Cossacks he recruited others, and they're mostly bandits. Who have now stolen at least two, maybe three, locomotives and a number of train cars! Which Semenoff has armored! He uses the trains to raid towns I'm responsible for! But the British got tired of his raiding and stopped paying. The intelligence department says the Japanese are his new paymasters, but we haven't confirmed it yet.

"I mentioned the War Department. Their orders are for me to keep the Trans-Siberian Railroad and the Chinese Eastern Railway open to all traffic. You've got a little more than a thousand men, almost as many as Semenoff has, but they're spread out because that's the way it has to be. I don't have a single additional company I can give you! Not one! I thought of assigning my MP's to your battalion, but they've already had to break up a fight between American railroad workers and Semenoff's troops!

"I'm stretched to the breaking point, Colonel. You should have at least two regiments to cover the area you're responsible for, but all you have is two companies and because of the sickness they're barely larger than platoons. The only thing I can do is tell you I'll try to avoid turning over those arms to Semenoff as long as I can. But I may not be able to do that for much longer; if the State Department insists, I won't have a choice. Meantime, I don't want to know about it if bandits raid that arms shipment you're holding. Do you take my meaning, Colonel?"

"Yes, Sir!" Colonel Morrow stood and came to attention. "Permission to withdraw, General?"

"Granted. I would do more if I could, Colonel. One thing I can do if your people really get into a fight, I've got a few marines I can send you, temporarily. I keep them back until they're desperately needed, so you can't have them permanently. Meantime, I suggest you augment your forces with local hires. Laborers, kitchen workers, wagoneers and mule drivers, people like that; they can go out with your patrols and carry back supplies. My budget will support that."

"Thank you, Sir." Colonel Morrow saluted and held the salute until General Graves returned it.

By the time Morrow closed the door, the general had started studying the intelligence summaries the colonel had left on his desk.

 

Chapter Two

Second Lieutenant Thornton came to attention, saluted, and announced, "Lieutenant Thornton, Robert, reporting as ordered, Sir!"

"At ease, Lieutenant. Coffee?"

"Sir, yes Sir!"

"Relax, Lieutenant, this isn't West Point and you're not here for an ass chewing. Get your coffee and sit down. I wanted to ask about this report."

"Is there something wrong with it, Sir?"

"No, and I said relax! I just wanted to confirm a few things. How's morale holding up?"

"As well as can be expected, Sir. The men aren't happy. The rest of the AEF are either going into Germany as occupation forces, or they're heading home for demobbing. But we're stuck here, and the men wonder if they've been forgotten."

"They haven't," Colonel Morrow said. "Mail still arrives, it's slow but it's sure, and the paymaster will be around in a few days. Things will improve. This Tyler, your new man; how's he shaping up?"

"Better than expected, Sir. Corporal Heintzelman taught him a few things, how to wear the uniform and such, but as soon as he picked up a Springfield it was obvious that he'd done a lot of shooting. Outstanding marksman, as good as anyone in the company! He's equally skilled when firing the pistol and the Chauchat automatic rifle. Most have trouble with trigger creep, but not Tyler. He was squeezing off careful three-round bursts within five minutes. First Sergeant MacAuliffe is impressed!"

"Old Mac; I'm surprised he's still in," Colonel Morrow mused. "He must have 30 years in the Army now."

"Yes, Sir. But he doesn't want to retire, Colonel; I gather there's nothing for him at home."

"Yeah. The Spanish flu hit his family hard. I don't know if he mentioned it, but they had three boys. The kids got it first. His wife Flo...the flu turned into pneumonia and after that, it took her too.

"But about Tyler; you wrote that according to Corporal O'Brien, he's steady under fire and shows commendable initiative?"

"Yes, Sir. Send me as many more like him as you can find. My A Company is the best in the First Battalion, I'll make it the best in the regiment!"

The colonel leaned back, making the swivel chair creak. He looked across the desk at Lieutenant Thornton, making up his mind about something. Thornton waited; whatever it was, it probably wouldn't be good. "I've got a problem, Lieutenant, and you're just the fellow to help me solve it. The battalion only has two short-handed companies and the general has no troops to spare. I asked and he explained, which was more than I expected. Our orders are to control the port of Vladivostok and keep the Trans-Siberian and Chinese Eastern railroads open to all customers. I don't have enough troops and my men can't maneuver. We're stuck guarding the railroads, but the Cossacks are cavalrymen who can hit us wherever they've a mind to. The only good thing is that at least half of Semenoff's so-called army are simple bandits. As for the railroad, as soon as we get more rolling stock Semenoff steals it. He's got at least as many men as I have and intelligence says the Japanese are paying him now, which may allow him to recruit more. His former British paymasters were fairly tight-fisted. So tell me, Lieutenant; in my shoes, how would you multiply your forces?"

"Guns, Sir." Thornton's answer was prompt. "Employ artillery and massed machine gun fire at critical points." The earlier uncertainty had gone.

"That's the West Point solution, Son, but it won't work here. I don't have artillery to give you, for one, and there are no massed troops to use it on for another. Semenoff's people don't stand and fight, they raid, sabotage, and if they run into opposition, they fade back into whatever crack they crawled out of. But I'll mention in passing that we're holding on to an arms shipment. It was supposed to go to Semenoff, but the general doesn't want to give it to him. Arm an enemy that's opposing us in the field? Madness! But the State Department might not leave him the choice. The shipment contains rifles, mortars, automatic rifles and machine guns, and ammo. The rifles are in a locked building and the explosives are in a bunker a short distance away. You might mention that to First Sergeant Mac.

"But there's another solution. The Boche had more and better machine guns when the war started, but when we showed up the AEF had something they didn't have. Ever hear about that fellow from Tennessee, Alvin York? I hear he's a sergeant now."

"Sharpshooters, Sir? But we still have that maneuver problem you mentioned, and the guerrillas can show up anywhere. They were bent on mischief when Corporal O'Brien's patrol ran into them, I'm sure of it, but they took off after losing two men. I'm not sure that having a designated sharpshooter along would have helped."

"Keep thinking, Lieutenant. You're getting there."

"The enemy doesn't bother pulling a few spikes now," the lieutenant mused. "The American Railway Service--make that the Russian Railway Service, mostly Americans--just resets the rails and moves on. But they were definitely up to something when my patrol interrupted them! You think they intended to destroy the bridge?"

"That's the only explanation that makes sense," the colonel agreed. "Semenoff's got a serious tactical problem called the Czech Legion. They were fighting on the Eastern Front with the Tsar's Army, but the Bolsheviks turned on them as soon as they made peace with the Kaiser. The Germans pulled out most of their divisions and sent them to the Western Front, but there are still too many for the Czechs to fight their way through so they can't go home. Germans to the west, Bolsheviks to the east; they're essentially trapped. But they have been loyal allies, and President Wilson is determined to get them out. That's where we come in, and it's one of the reasons we're guarding the railroad.

"The Czechs are heading for Vladivostok. They've fought several small battles since the Bolsheviks made peace and won them all. They lost people, but the rest are here in Siberia. Which brings me to Semenoff. He has to stop them, or he loses control of the railroad, but they're soldiers, real fighters, and his people are mostly simple bandits. If the Czechs reach his headquarters in Chita, he loses control of several thousand square miles of territory. Without that base, Semenoff's no longer a general, he's just a bandit on the run, and there are several factions that intend to hang him if they catch him."

"Yes, Sir. It's not surprising that his men ran! Not only are they undisciplined, they're not good shots. Their rifles are old, and the only ones I've seen are Moisins with permanently fixed bayonets. Not very maneuverable in a fight, and not very accurate even when they were new."

"Keep going, Lieutenant."

"Yes, Sir. So if we can't watch the tracks, you think putting a sharpshooter to watch the bridges would pay off? Or maybe send out long range patrols?"

"Not a sharpshooter, Lieutenant; the Brits call them snipers. Something to do with gamekeepers and snipe, I'm thinking, but it's been working well for them. One man or a two-man team can tie up a lot of enemy forces! It's one thing to advance knowing that you might be shot at, it's quite another to realize that as soon as you break cover you're dead. A team, maybe the size of that small patrol you sent out, would work best. The British have been doing it for a few years now and they're training our troops, the ones around Archangel, as snipe-hunters. That's what made me think of this."

"Sir, you're asking me to divide my forces!" the lieutenant protested.

"Custer didn't have Lewis guns or Brownings, Lieutenant! You might point that out to First Sergeant Mac, because he's bound to complain. And don't forget about that arms shipment, he really needs to know about that. Make sure you tell him what's in it."

"Yes, Sir. I'll be sure to do that."

***

The message was duly delivered. Mac frowned, then grinned. "I take the general's meaning, Lieutenant. Now, if there's nothing more, I need to get to work."

"Dismissed, First Sergeant."

An observer might have noticed that Top MacAuliffe was busy for some time after he left the lieutenant.

And that later that afternoon, he led a small group away from the camp.

***

"Keep it quiet! Do you want to get us shot?" Mac was mad, and made even madder because he had to keep his voice down.

"Sorry, Top," whispered Corporal O'Brien. "But the guard's asleep, and the duty officer won't bother to check. He sacks out after midnight because he has to work tomorrow. Besides, Private Jensen doesn't have any bullets. Regiment's afraid he will shoot a local."

"But he has got a bayonet! And I said keep quiet!"

Sensibly, O'Brien decided that if his first sergeant wanted to know more, he would ask.

The lock was Russian and far from new. Private Smithers had volunteered to pick it, a fairly simple process or should have been. But the lock stubbornly remained locked. He, along with Private Tyler who had been assigned to assist, huddled around the door. The others moved away to allow them to work. They would also keep watch for Private Jensen, who might decide this was the night to wake up and check the building he was supposed to be guarding.

Smithers fumbled at the lock again, frustrated. "The damned thing is rusty!" he whispered. "The shackle should have released, but nothing's happening!"

"I'll hold the body of the lock, you make sure you didn't miss one of the tumblers," Tyler offered.

"I'm sure I got them all, but maybe the tensioner didn't hold tight enough to keep one from slipping back. Okay, you hold it and I'll use both hands."

Tyler, called T by the squad, gripped the body of the lock, waiting for Smithers to do his work. Idly he wondered how Smithers knew what to do, then pushed the thought aside. If Smithers wanted to open up about his past, he'd do so without being asked. At least he had a past, unlike T, who sometimes had strange dreams. But didn't everyone? Especially dreams of flying, of soaring effortlessly across the landscape while feeling the stiff breeze in his face?

Of reality, there was no trace. Who and what he was...he might have been born anew that day he stumbled into the clearing. What was Mischa doing now? Did he really intend to use his new rifle to hunt bandits? If so, more power to him! While thinking, T had unconsciously kept tension on the lock body. Suddenly it popped open, the click as it opened sounding gunshot-loud to the men.

"Leave it unlocked and hang it on your belt," whispered Mac. "As soon as the door opens, get inside. And no talking!"

The hinges squeaked, but the sound was slight. Moments later, they were inside the rude building. Dim light penetrated through a small, barred window set just below the roof peak, revealing orderly stacks of boxes. "We should be safe enough now, but keep your voices low. Check the boxes; there should be labels somewhere. I'll be wanting twenty pistols and five BARs, so I will. Leave everything else and try not to create a mess. I may want to come back here again."

The crates were strapped with metal bands, but wire cutters worked almost as well on the bands as they had on the barbed wire of the Western Front. Using a pair of trench knives to pry open the lid, they carefully opened one of the wooden crates. Long paper-wrapped packages were stacked side by side, held apart by wooden spacers. "Replace the Brownings with those damned Chauchats!" Mac murmured. "I'm glad to see the last of them! How are you doing with the pistol crates?"

"I got them open, Top," said Tyler. "I think I can carry the twenty you want and one of the BARs. I'll just run a wire--there was a spool on that shelf against the wall, along with a hammer and some other tools--through the trigger guards. That'll do until we get back to the camp."

"Good thinking, Tyler! Smithers, you carry one BAR, I'll carry one, and Dolan, you carry the other two. What about that steel strapping? We can't just leave it."

"Put it in the case with the other BARs," suggested Tyler. "We'll put the cover back in place, tap the nails in, and no one will notice."

"Tyler, I swear you had to have been a thief somewhere before you joined up! Do it and let's get out of here."

"Just one thing, Sarge. I'm not carrying two fucking automatic rifles. Those damned things are heavy!" Dolan stopped speaking suddenly.

Corporal O'Brien had produced a toad sticker, a weapon that combined a cut-down bayonet and a heavy brass knuckle-guard. The needle tip now rested against Dolan's chest.

"Recognize it, Dolan? It used to be a Lebel bayonet, one of the triangular ones. But I might not stick you; I might just see whether the knuckleduster can break a jaw. Feel like eating mush for a month or so, Dolan?"

"I..."

"Don't kill him here, Patrick! Make him walk; if he gives you any lip after that, just make sure it's deniable. I doubt anyone will ask questions." Mac's voice left no doubt that he meant precisely what he'd said, that he'd just given Corporal O'Brien permission to murder Dolan if he caused further problems.

"I'll carry thim, but begorra, I should be the gunner! 'Tis wrong I should carry a gun for somebody else! You need a big man to carry that heavy damned BAR!"

"We'll talk about it back at camp," Corporal O'Brien whispered. "But make no mistake, Dolan, you try shirking in my squad and yer mother will get a nicer letter from the lieutenant than she deserves."

Dolan fumed, but picked up the two wrapped weapons, which together with the accessories brought the combined weight to almost a hundred pounds. He suddenly realized that Tyler, who probably weighed no more than a hundred and fifty pounds, had to be carrying almost as much weight. And those pistols, even hung across his shoulders, had to be an awkward load.

"Patrick, lead the way," MacAuliffe ordered. "Dolan, you stay with the corporal. If ye cause trouble, I'll find you. My trench knife works as well as that fancy French toad-sticker, and you don't like the steel, now do you? You keep that in mind!

"We'll be along as soon as Smithers replaces the lock, Patrick; don't stop until you're back at the camp. Put the BARs in my quarters. I'll see that the guns are put where they'll do the most harm. O'Brien, you and Tyler hang onto the pistols. Clean the new weapons tomorrow after morning drill, and we'll see about test firing them in a day or so."

He was answered by silent nods, barely visible in the dimness, and the two men slipped away in the darkness. As soon as the two were far enough away, Tyler, whispering, voiced a concern. "We could have left one of the BARs. We only had four Chauchats."

"We could, but I doubt anyone will check the numbers and I wanted to make a point. Dolan's a bad actor, been in the stockade more times than I can count! Give him his due, he fights when fighting is called for, but he's also got the disease; he's got a thirst as big as he is and he's a brawler even when he's sober. Corporal O'Brien will do what's necessary, so he will, but you two need to be careful! He'll take out his temper on the two of yez if he gets half a chance. Ye might see about picking up a toad-sticker of yer own, but they're not easy to find in Russia. If ye can't, trench knives are common enough and Dolan doesn't like the steel, he fair doesn't. He'll kill a man with his fists, but the cold steel is not to his liking!"

"I'll watch him," said T. "He won't cause trouble."

Sergeant Mac nodded; there had been no doubt in Tyler's words. What did he know? Was his memory returning? Well. The team would be going out in a few days, as soon as the lieutenant gave his approval. After that, it would be up to Corporal Patrick O'Brien.

And just maybe, Private T if he was as good a fighter as he thought he was.

 

Chapter Three

"You up for another midnight requisition, Tyler?" asked Sergeant Mac.

"Sure, Top. More BARs?"

"Not this time. The lieutenant wants a sharpshooter, and the colonel has a Springfield that was set up especially for him by the regimental armorer. It's capable of minute of angle or less."

"Really? An inch at a hundred yards? If I ever shot anything that accurate, I don't remember. But then, there's still a lot I don't remember. Some things have come back, but not everything."

"It happens," Mac agreed. "Some of the boys have it worse. I remember one, got caught in a mortar barrage while we were stationed in the Philippines; I don't think he ever spoke another word, just sat staring at the wall. The Army shipped him home."

"Poor guy," mused Private Tyler. "I keep hoping the rest of my memory comes back. I have dreams, but they don't make sense."

"Dreams of fighting?" asked Sergeant Mac. He had dreams of his own. And some were nightmares.

"Not exactly. There's an eagle, not a bald eagle but one of the brownish ones like you see over here, and I'm flying alongside it."

"'Tis a strange dream indeed, Lad! Anyway, back to the colonel's Springfield. There's only one like it in the regiment. 'Tis the colonel's personal weapon, but he never checks it out, not even to go hunting. Lots of officers do that, you know, some of the troops too. Plenty of deer and bear around here, and the cooks are glad to get the meat. But the colonel wears a Colt auto on duty, one of the new M1911A1 models. I figure you need the rifle more than he does, and if we replace it with a Springfield from that shipment he'll never know the difference."

"You think I need it? I'm pretty good with the one I was issued."

"Are ye? You fired the standard known-distance course, but only out to 600 yards. I'll hand you this much, you did pretty good considering the rifle. Now I know a thing or two about precision marksmanship, so I do. I tried out for the Army Marksmanship Team in 1907. I thought I had a chance, but I lost out during the final practice match. The point is that we fired at targets that were 1000 yards away. That's over half a mile, me bucko, and at that range the 30-inch bullseye is but a dot that's less than half the width of the front sight. The slightest breeze can throw you off, so it can. That's what happened to me, I doped the wind wrong. I was cut from the team, so I was, but I never forgot. A Springfield will kill a man as far as you can see him...if yer a good enough shot."

"Top, you're probably a better shot than I am! Why don't you take the colonel's rifle?"

"Two reasons, me boyo. I like being the company first sergeant, so I do, and one of these days I'll be a master sergeant. But if the colonel got word I was shooting his pet rifle, I'd be busted back to private before I could sneeze. The other reason is that I've got a reinforced half-company to take care of right now, and maybe later on I shall have a full company, and that reinforced too! If I volunteered for this special mission, somebody else would get that promotion, so he would."

"But what happens to me if the colonel finds out I have his rifle?"

"How? Yer not going to tell, I'm not going to tell, and Smithers is yet a private. Nobody listens to privates, Lad. Even if the colonel heard about it, yer already a private so he can't bust you. And I hear tell the chow in the stockade is better than what we get, plus you don't have to fill sandbags in the rain."

"Put that way, why not? I'd rather shoot a Cossack when he's a thousand yards away. Much better than trying to bayonet him when he's about to whack my head off with a sword! But how are we going to do this? The regimental arms room is bound to be better guarded than that storage shack."

"Oh, it is, me bucko, but we're not breaking in. We'll take a Springfield from the shipment, aye, and clean it properly. But then we'll waltz into the arms room big as you please. If..."

"If, Sergeant Mac?" T was suddenly suspicious.

"If ye have two more gold coins like ye gave to that Russian! The armorer will do the exchange, but he's taking a chance, so he is, and he expects a little extra for his time and trouble. He'll change the serial numbers in the records, but if he changed the colonel's serial number and substituted yours, the which is on the detachment's property book, 'tis possible some nosey might find out. Now it could just be that there's a record somewhere that says it was issued to you, or to A Company, at least. 'Tis why we'll have to steal one from the shipment. There is no list of serial numbers, just the model number and quantity."

"But won't someone wonder if the count comes up short?"

"And why would they? Our officers won't care, so they won't! The arms are probably going to the Russians anyway. They might say something about a missing rifle, but they also might not. If they hope to get more later on, ye ken, they'll keep mum. 'Tis a piece of cake, Lad!"

"So why would we be going to the arms room? We need a reason, don't we?"

"Maintenance, me boy! I've noticed that the front sight on your rifle is a wee bit worn, and the armorer, who's school-trained, is the only one who can decide if something needs replacing. Now 'tis true that most of the time a bottle of rum or a few beers will do when a fellow needs a favor that's off the books, but this time he's being a bit skittish. 'Tis the colonels personal rifle, d'ye see. He's a buck sergeant and likes being one, but for a pair of double eagles he's willing to do what's needed."

T nodded understanding. "So when are we going to do this, Top?"

"I'll let ye know. You do have the gold, right? Two double eagles?"

"I don't know. The few I've got left might be eagles or even half-eagles. But forty bucks worth, I think I still have that much. Maybe. I'll have to sneak out of camp to get it."

"Don't get caught, lad, especially not by an officer! In the meantime, I'll just have a chat with my friend and have him take a good look at the colonel's rifle. If it needs a new sling or something, he'll see to it before we stop by for a visit."

"Now that you mention it, Top, have him put a new sling on the one we're taking. Take the colonel's old sling and transfer it to the rifle we're substituting! The colonel might not notice the serial number of his piece, but he'll notice if the sling is different. Or at least I would."

"And so would I, my lad, so would I! Ye're another born thief, me boy. You'll go far in this man's army, mark my words! If ye can stay out of Dolan's way, that is. He been bothering you?"

"Not so far. I hear he gets mean when he's had a snootful."

"Aye, and the lieutenant wants you four to have a couple of days off before you leave. He'll have his chance at the whiskey, so he will. Be careful; you don't look like a pug, me boy. Yer nose is too straight and yer ears still look like ears."

"I don't think I ever boxed, if that's what you mean, but Dolan's clumsy. I saw him in the ring two weeks ago when he fought that machine gunner from B Company. His footwork stinks."

"That it does, but don't get overconfident! He's bull-strong and quick. He knows about his footwork, it's why he only fights in local matches. The regimental champ would tear his head off and feed it to him backwards, so he would."

"He's strong," T agreed. "But he telegraphs his punches. It was like I knew what he was going to do before he did it! But I don't have any reason to start trouble. If he leaves me alone, I'll do the same to him."

***

T and Smithers sat cross-legged by a scrap of canvas, once part of a shelter half. They had disassembled two of the 'requisitioned' pistols and were meticulously removing the grease that had been put on while preparing the weapons for overseas shipment. Neither noticed Dolan's approach. Smithers spotted him first and his eyes widened, but he had no time to call out. T never saw the kick coming.

Dolan was drunk, which may have been why his kick missed T's head and struck his left shoulder.

Numb, left arm useless, T rolled clumsily to his feet. He backpedaled, trying to work feeling into the arm while avoiding Dolan's left-handed punch at his face.

But the tingling arm refused to cooperate.

"I don't like your goddamned face, Bucko!" Dolan panted. "I think I'll just improve it!" He followed the first punch with a powerful hook from his right hand. It might have ended the fight, but T stepped inside and lifted a vicious knee into Dolan's crotch. Dolan hunched over and grunted, shocked by the sudden agony. T stepped back and measured the man. Balanced, feet slightly spread, he took a half-step forward with his left foot and brought up his right foot, kicking Dolan on the point of his jaw. Teeth rattled against the ground and Dolan slumped bonelessly, already unconscious and bleeding from the nose and mouth.

From the first kick to the last, the fight had lasted less than half a minute.

"Shit, you killed him!" exclaimed Smithers.

"I don't think so, but you'd better run and get someone just in case. See if you can find Corporal O'Brien and if you can't, tell Sergeant Mac. After you explain what happened, bring the medic."

"No medic, T; he's in Vladivostok seeing about the sick men and won't be back until tomorrow. I'll fetch the corporal. He'll know what to do."

Smithers trotted away. T gathered the pistol parts and stored them in the hut. Mac and the corporal would understand, but suppose an officer heard about the fight? Some things were better not mentioned. He laid his Springfield and Smithers' BAR out on the canvas.

Dolan was breathing loudly, bloody bubbles on his lips, as T field-stripped the weapons for cleaning.

***

Corporal O'Brien was having coffee with Sergeant Mac when Smithers found them. Gasping, he attempted to explain what had happened.

"Well, well; ye don't say? Dolan's been asking for it and 'twas only a matter of time until he found someone who would give it to him. Ye say T kicked him?"

"Yeah! He did something else before that, but I didn't see what it was. By the time I noticed Dolan, he had already kicked T. The kick knocked him over, but T rolled right back up. He never even put up his hands! Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure Dolan was drunk. He didn't say a word, just tried to kick T in the head and the next thing I knew, Dolan was holding his crotch. T never threw a punch, although Dolan sure tried to! T just took a moment like he was deciding what he wanted to do, then kicked Dolan upside the head. I heard a crack when T's boot hit and I thought the kick broke Dolan's neck for sure, but T says not. Even if Dolan is still alive he probably has a busted jaw, and for sure he lost some teeth!"

"Ye don't say! Well, we should probably go see in a bit. Ye're sure Dolan's down?"

"Oh, yeah! If he's not dead, he's at least out cold. If I was him, I'd stay that way! After that kick..."

"Well, then! There's no reason to hurry, is there? Want a cup of coffee, lad?"

"I don't know, Top; shouldn't we see about Dolan?"

"Ye can if you want to, but I'm going to finish my coffee first. Patrick?"

"Pretty good coffee, Sergeant Mac. Be a shame to waste it," O'Brien agreed.

"I think I better go back, Top," fretted Smithers. "Thanks for the offer, but T told me to find you and tell you what happened. I should be there if Dolan wakes up."

"Go ye ahead, then. Tell T we'll be along directly, and don't you be mentioning this to the lieutenant. 'Tis NCO business, d'ye understand?"

"Got it, Top. What if Dolan wakes up?"

"Tell T to kick him again, but harder. Dolan's got a thick skull, so he has."

***

Dolan was duly hauled off to the train stop, and none too gently put on the train for Vladivostok. He was awake by then and in considerable pain from his swollen jaw. If anyone was sorry to see him go, no one mentioned it.

"It leaves me with a problem, so it does. I kind of wish yer boy T had just whipped Dolan bad, not put him in the hospital. The colonel wants a squad out on patrol, and I don't have anyone else to give you. At the same time, I don't like the idea of putting three men out without backup. I wouldn't even know about it if ye needed help."

"There's a lot more to Tyler than shows on the surface, Mac," Patrick said. "Tell you what, let me talk to him and Smithers; I'm ready to go out with just the three of us. Dolan would have been more trouble than he was worth anyway."

"I don't like it, young Corporal! Too damned many bandits out there, aye, and Cossacks too. I don't think it matters anyway; the lieutenant won't send just the three of you out."

"What if we leave before he gets back?" Patrick asked.

"No," Mac decided. "For one thing, ye haven't finished cleaning those weapons, and for another, we'll need to check them over good before I'll be willing to issue them. I need the extra firepower, so I do, but a weapon that might malfunction is worse than no weapon at all. Losing people if ye run into an ambush...well, there are none too many of us as 'tis. One of these days, Gospodin Cossack is going to come calling. They hit a detachment up north of here at Romanovka, ye know. They killed and wounded a bunch of the boys, the dirty spalpeens, and they could do the same to us. But if I can get those BARs into the hands of my boys, we'll give them a whipping they won't soon forget!

"And they've already had desertions, so they have. Did ye know that hundreds of Cossacks showed up asking for our protection? With Hetman Kalmikoff and a couple of thousand others hot on their heels? Which may be why Semenoff started recruiting bandits; they don't care who's in charge or what they're ordered to do, so long as they're paid and they get to rob and rape. But by the same token, they'll take off just as soon as they run into regular soldiers. They'll be like Villa and his bunch, so they will. 'Twas down in New Mexico, barely spitting distance from the border.

"They snuck into Camp Columbus in the wee hours, started shooting with niver a word of warning. They killed a couple of the lads, then took off as soon as one of the boys got his machine gun going. Bandits, they were, and niver soldiers. I was a new corporal back then. I had an old Hotchkiss gun at the time, and as soon as I saw a target, I gave him a burst. I kept on shooting and the lieutenant kept the boys busy bringing me ammunition. The barrel was fair useless after that. I fired close to 3000 rounds that night, so I did. The lieutenant said that any man who would spend that much of the taxpayer's money on ammunition ought to be a sergeant, at least. So he gave me Sergeant Dobbs' stripes. Blood stripes, they were."

"Heard about that fight. I was a kid when it happened, still going to school," said Patrick.

"Ye're still a kid, corporal. But if ye pay attention, I'll make you into a real soldier one of these days."

"So you want us to clean and test-fire the weapons? After that we can go?"

"You'll go when the lieutenant says, young Corporal, when the lieutenant says. Just you be ready, and if I can find you another man or two between now and then, I'll see you get them. Now why don't you go give the pair you've already got a hand cleaning those guns? One thing, Lad; I wouldn't be letting myself be fooled by Private Tyler! He's not like Dolan, all bullying and bluster.

"That young man is dangerous, so he is."

 

Chapter Four

"What the devil are you doing?" Corporal O'Brien's voice showed his irritation.

"Something you should do, Corporal. If you ever want to hear your grandchildren's voices, that is." T had been systematically stripping threads from the tattered edge of the worn canvas scrap while they talked. Finished, he wadded up balls of thread and carefully inserted them into his ears. Unslinging the rope around his shoulder...the carry wire had bruised his shoulder...he laid the pistols on the canvas. Smithers had been opening boxes of the fat cartridges while T made his earplugs. Briefly inspecting each cartridge before loading it into a magazine, he systematically prepared the pistols for firing. The members of the proposed sniper team would get pistols as part of today's exercise, five others would be given to the company officers and NCOs to replace worn pistols, and the rest would be issued as the lieutenant and Sergeant Mac thought best.

"If the army had wanted us to use earplugs, they'd have issued them! Besides, an empty .45 case works pretty good." Patrick took two brass cases from his pocket and carefully inserted them into his ear openings.

Corporal Heintzelman had come up with his Second Squad while the discussion was ongoing. They had brought the rest of the automatic rifles and two cases of ammunition. Hearing the comments, Heintzelman used his trench knife to cut a swatch of cloth from the shrinking piece of scrap. Keeping two small pieces for himself, he passed the rest of the cloth out to his men while issuing orders. "I'll have twenty-eight long paces, Johnson. Albertson will help you put up the posts and nail the two long boards between them. The short nails are to tack the canvas to the boards.

"Morris, you'll mix flour and water to make the glue that will hold the targets to the canvas. I want one target chest high, and a smaller target just above it. The third target will go below the big one, just above the ground. When you've done that, step off to the side and pace off twenty-two more yards. Put up the second set of posts, but this time I only want two targets. The big target will be chest high and the smaller one head high."

"No lower target, Corporal?"

"Nope. The two upper targets are for the pistols, but we'll zero the BARs at 28 yards. That's what the low target is for. The BAR shoots the same round as the Springfield, so sighting in at 28 yards will mean the weapon is dead-on vertically at just under 250 yards. It's the best we can do with the hasty range we're building. 'Tis a good combat zero for the automatic rifle. Ye must hold a little low out to 200 yards, on target from 200 to 275, and a little high out to 300. I wouldn't expect great accuracy; the BAR might be better than other machine guns, but I'll wait until I've had a lot of practice before I try precision shooting. A good marksman can hit a man out to 1000 yards with his Springfield. Think you can do that, Tyler?"

"I guess we'll see, Corporal. As for the pistols, I'll be happy to be on the target out to 50 yards."

"I thought you were supposed to be a good shot?"

"I guess we'll see, Corporal," Tyler repeated. "How about you?"

"I'm fair with a pistol, so I am. I can keep on target out to 25 yards. Farther than that, I'd use a rifle anyway."

"Count your people and make sure everyone is back," Corporal O'Brien said. "When you're ready, choose a pistol for yerself and let yer men choose too, but don't load until everyone is accounted for. And keep them back from the firing line!"

"I'll take care of my people," Heintzelman responded testily. "You just worry about hitting the target."

***

Corporal Heintzelman fired his last shot, emptying the magazine, then lowered his arm. Like most pistol shooters, he'd learned to put his left hand on his hip and extend the right hand, pointing the pistol at the target by turning sideways. He laid the pistol on the canvas. The slide had locked back after the last shot and thin tendrils of smoke rose lazily from the muzzle and the open action.

"Ready to take a look?" T asked.

"Yeah, I think I did pretty good." The two walked downrange to the 28-yard target.

"Looks okay. Any problems with the pistol?"

"It felt good. No rattles and the sights looked steady."

T frowned at the target. "You've got one in the bull, two in the three ring, and five just outside the ring. You're on paper and no flyers, so yes, I'd say that was okay."

T took a pencil from his pocket and carefully marked each hole with vertical and horizontal lines.

"You gonna do better?" asked Heintzelman.

"Why don't we find out?" T led the way back to the line, then picked up the pistol Heintzelman had used.

Glancing around to ensure that everyone was behind the line, he adjusted the pistol's grip so that it fitted snugly into the web between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Corporal O'Brien watched carefully, making mental notes; he'd never seen this done, but quickly understood why T was doing it. "I do things a bit different," offered T. "Why don't you just tell me when you're ready for me to start?"

"Sure thing, Tyler. Ready?" Heintzelman avoided smirking, but only just.

"Anytime you are, Corporal."

"Then...go!"

T swept the cocked pistol up, watching the front sight as he brought up his left hand and cupped it around his right hand, the little finger underneath to support the pistol butt. Crouching slightly, he squeezed off round after round until the slide locked to the rear. The recoil from each shot caused the muzzle to rise, but it sank back into shooting position before T squeezed the trigger again.

"What the hell was that, Tyler? You cheated!"

"That's how I learned, Corporal. Why is it cheating?"

"They'd never even allow you on the line during a match, and that's not how you qualify with the pistol! And eight shots that fast...hell, I doubt you were even on paper! It can't have taken more than seven or eight seconds!"

"Let's take a look." T laid the pistol aside, then joined the corporal as they went forward to examine the targets.

Despite his doubts, Heintzelman was impressed. "Little high and off to the left, but I can't argue with the group. Six inches?"

"About that, I'd say. I'll make a note to adjust the sight on this one. Couple of taps will move the sight in the dovetail. For now, I'll just hold a couple of inches to the right. As for being two inches high, that's what you want at this range. We'll see how it does at fifty yards." T took out a sheet of paper and recorded his observation and the pistol's serial number. He then made the same set of vertical and horizontal identifying marks through the new target holes.

"Can you show me how you did that, Tyler?" asked Corporal O'Brien.

"Sure. Corporal Heintzelman was using the old duelist's stance. Mine was developed by a man named Weaver."

"Never heard of him. T, are ye getting your memory back?" O'Brien asked.

"I think so. I'm having a lot of dreams for one, nightmares too, and I don't think my name's Tyler. But I remember people calling me T, so maybe it is."

"I don't suppose it matters, but you might want to keep it quiet if you do remember. For all we know, you could be some kind of murderer. Maybe you're on the run."

Funny you should say that, T thought. That's exactly what I am. That much I remember. Although I don't think I'm running from the law, at least not here in Siberia!

But he simply nodded to the corporal and went on with his work. "Let me check the sights and functioning on the rest of these, Corporal O'Brien. As soon as I'm satisfied, I'll hand you a pistol. You check it over, make sure I didn't miss anything, and as soon as you've got enough you can start qualifying the rest of the squad."

"I'll do that, but after I'm done, I want to learn that funny style of shooting!"

***

T was tired at the end of the day, but this time he didn't have to carry the pistols back to camp. The corporals had apportioned them out to the rest of their men, and they were happy to carry the extras.

He and Smithers lugged two BARs each, but the automatic rifles now had slings so it was a simple matter to carry one over each shoulder.

Sergeant Mac was waiting when they got back to camp.

"Got you a present, Tyler. With luck, the colonel will never realize what happened."

"This is the colonel's rifle?"

"That it was, lad, and if I hadn't promised it to you I'd have it for meself! 'Tis a sweet weapon, so 'tis, and I don't think the colonel would bust me. He needs a good first sergeant, so he does."

"Thank you, Sergeant Mac. I'll put it to good use."

"I'm depending on it! Sight it in carefully, lad, it will take care of ye when ye need it most."

T nodded and accepted the rifle. Outwardly, it showed no sign that anyone had worked it over. Thoughtfully, he opened the bolt and looked inside, making sure the chamber was empty. Closing the bolt, he carefully squeezed the trigger. The action and trigger were much smoother than would be expected from an issue weapon. T nodded to himself; if the rifle shot as well as it functioned otherwise, it might well be all that Sergeant Mac had promised. "I'll see if Smithers is available to go back to the range, maybe Corporal O'Brien too. The corporal will let you know how well it shoots for me."

***

"Thought you would want to see this, Sarge." Corporal O'Brien was carrying a crude target made by painting a large black circle on the front of an old uniform shirt.

Mac looked at the target, then leaned forward and placed his hands side by side, covering the holes in the shirt. Leaning back, he asked quietly, "How many shots? At what range?"

"Ten, Sarge. That's them, all of them, the ten rounds he fired for record. Range, an estimated eight hundred yards. He had already checked the zero on the piece. Pretty close in windage, elevation...well, he had to do some sighting shots. It had apparently been zeroed at two hundred, so that took about a half dozen rounds to get it to where it was right.

"No wind, not even a breeze; just a cool day without a lot of mirage visible. I set that shirt up at an estimated 750 yards and when we paced it off, it ended closer to 800. I'd say that's good enough for a combat zero."

"Just under half a mile, then. If he can shoot that well at an estimated distance, and at a target that might shoot back..."

"Yeah. He's done all right so far, and we're going out tomorrow. I'll set up an ambush where we can see that railroad bridge, probably stay out for the day, and come back in around midnight. If that's okay with you, I mean."

"That should work out. The lieutenant will be back by tomorrow afternoon, so if he gives you permission you can go out for a longer patrol next time and stay overnight. What about rations? Water? Ammo?"

"We'll have enough for the day. Shouldn't be a problem, except that we'll be loaded down with bandoleers. The BAR goes through ammo pretty fast. We'll reload the magazines in the field. If we need to, I mean. With luck, Tyler can bag a guerrilla or two and put the fear of God into the rest."

"Where are Smithers and Tyler now?"

"Cleaning their weapons. I told them to get some sleep after that."

"Okay. One day-long patrol approved, be back by dark or shortly after. If ye're late, I'll tell the cook to save dinner."

***

Tyler's sleep was normal, uninterrupted, in the beginning. That soon changed, but this time it wasn't the nightmares he'd recently experienced.

His shout woke Smithers, who found Tyler sitting straight up in his bed. He was wide-eyed and shaking.

"Tyler, what the hell are you doing?"

"I...I'm sorry, I didn't intend to wake you up."

"You damned well did! What was that about?"

"What did I say?" Tyler asked, suspicious.

"Nothing that made sense. What was going on?"

"I don't know how to explain it, but I could swear I heard Dolan!"

"Dolan? He's still in Vladivostok! You had to be dreaming. Was it about the fight?"

"Not exactly. Maybe; Dolan accused me of being some kind of spy! He said I was a fraud, and he was going to kill me when he got back. So I knew he was still in the hospital, but at the same time I could hear him. His voice was as clear as yours is right now. What did I say?"

"I didn't hear everything, because I only woke up after you started shouting, but I heard that last. You yelled, "Get the hell out of my head!"

"That doesn't make sense!" said Tyler.

"I know. But that's what I heard."

 

Chapter Five

Corporal O'Brien's voice was soft.

"Time to get a move on. Semenoff's people, assuming they're out there, won't be stirring this early but 'tis time we did. A weather front has moved in, and we've got light rain. Which is usually followed by fog. I let you two sleep as long as I could, but if we're going to reach the bridge by daylight we've got to get started."

"What time is it?" asked T, still groggy.

"'Tis gone half past three. There's coffee and breakfast in the kitchen. Don't dawdle."

"Meet you there, Corporal. Is Smithers awake?"

"Yeah, you two woke me up," Smithers grumbled. "Is that rain?"

"Aye, it is, but it's letting up a bit. The which is to the good, because we can move faster without being so concerned about noise."

T pulled on his uniform, appreciating the warmth of the heavy wool this morning. The sweater went on over the blouse, followed by his campaign hat. "Poncho?"

"Leave it in your pack, Lad. The rain is just a drizzle now, and 'twould be a fine evening in the old country! The fog is moving in, that it is, but we'll follow the tracks. We'll get to the bridge in plenty of time." Corporal O'Brien's brogue was more pronounced this morning.

"If you say so, Corporal." Smithers fell in behind as T followed the corporal to the mess tent, which was lit dimly by a single kerosene lamp. A cook was waiting to dish up their breakfast of hard bread, fresh eggs, bacon, and potatoes. "Beans ain't ready yet. How many eggs you want?"

The men asked for four each. The cook nodded and cracked them into a bowl.

Heavy mugs, locally manufactured, waited by the coffee pot. T poured coffee into three, then added sugar. Locals occasionally supplied milk as well as eggs and potatoes, but it wasn't available this morning. He carried the mugs to the table and handed the extras to Corporal O'Brien and Smithers. They ate quietly and soon finished the meal. Metal trays and utensils went into a heavy steel basin that was already heating atop a wood-fired stove. They would be washed later by a soldier detailed to help in the kitchen.

Packs on, weapons slung muzzle-down, they walked silently toward the gate. The guard nodded but said nothing as they headed down the muddy path leading to the railway.

"We'll stay off to the left of the tracks," Corporal O'Brien whispered. "No need to go into the woods, we'll just stay close to the edge. I'll lead, Smithers in the middle, T follows. Watch out for bushes, they're hard to see in the fog, and keep the noise down."

Soft moonlight, diffused through the fog, showed spectral pines at the edge of the cleared zone. The rain had turned into mist, but the mud made walking a chore. The three shrugged their packs into more-comfortable positions, then headed for the railroad bridge. If Semenoff's men were out and about, they'd have the same problems with the limited visibility and sticky mud. The patrol didn't know if anyone was waiting by the bridge, but on the other hand the enemy wouldn't expect an attack. Perhaps it all equaled out.

***

T was weary by the time Corporal O'Brien called a halt, the only one he'd allowed during the hike. A pale glimmer showed that dawn would arrive soon.

"We'll move into the edge of the woods now, and be sure ye keep quiet," whispered O'Brien. "I figure the bridge is about half a mile ahead, no more than that, but it could be closer. And the enemy could be anywhere. There'll be no speaking aloud until we're back at camp, understood?" The other two whispered assent. "Shuck your packs here. Check the safety on your weapons and make sure your muzzles are clear of mud and rain. We'll take a fifteen-minute break before we move closer to the bridge. Take a crap, water a bush, do what ye need to. We'll fill our canteens at the spring on the way back, but there will be no more food until we get back so be sparing. Questions?"

"Not a question, Corporal, but they're ahead of us and moving. I can hear them," T whispered.

"Damn! I don't hear anything; are ye sure?"

"Hang on for a moment..." T concentrated. "There are four of them. They're talking, but I don't think it's Russian. Mongolian, maybe. They're in front of that low knoll on the far side of the ravine. Smithers, can't you hear them?"

"I don't hear anything. Just the dripping of the trees." Smithers slipped the BAR off his shoulder, feeling for the safety.

"Tyler, I hope you're right, but it just means we have to be extra quiet from now on. We'll keep the same order when we move ahead. I'll scout, Smithers follows twenty yards behind me with the BAR, and Tyler, you'll be ten yards behind him. Keep that safety on and yer finger off the trigger until I tell you otherwise, Smithers. Tyler does the killing, ye're security in case they figure out where the shooting is coming from. I'll drop back and be yer assistant as soon as Tyler shoots. Tyler, if you can hear them then they can hear us. They can't be more than three hundred yards away and maybe less than a hundred, it's hard to tell in this fog. If you spot them before I do, tap me shoulder. I'll figure out what to do then. If ye're wrong about the numbers, we'll just find a nice safe place to hole up and wait for a better chance."

"Got it, Corporal," Smithers whispered. His finger touched the safety, making sure it was on. The automatic rifle was fully loaded, needing only to have the safety released to be ready to fire. T simply nodded, the motion barely visible in the dim moonlight. He understood the corporal's caution. "One thing, Corporal," whispered T. "This fog is a good thing. They won't know where I'm shooting from."

"Aye. Well, four of them and but the three of us! If ye can take out the trailing man and at least one more, I might be able to do for the rest. I'll pot the one behind the leader as soon as you shoot. The shooting should freeze the others in place just long enough, so take whichever one you can see after they go to ground. With a wee bit of luck, we'll bag the lot of them. And Smithers, save yer ammo unless they rush us, understood?"

"Yes, Corporal."

"Tyler, any idea how close they are?"

"It's a ways yet. The other side of the ravine, bottom of that knoll, but coming this way."

"I didn't think we were that close! We move out in--twelve minutes. Take care of your personal business, but be careful. Keep yer weapons with ye at all times."

***

Break over, O'Brien led them to the edge of the woods. Hearing nothing, other than the occasional drip from the trees, he eased ahead. Where was the damned bridge? They should have reached it by now...unless Tyler was imagining things. But he'd sounded certain of his information; how could he have heard the guerrillas talking?

Slow anger began growing. If Tyler had spooked enough to believe he'd heard the enemy...

That was a preview of Siberian Wizard: Book Five, the Wizards Series. To read the rest purchase the book.

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