The Last Chronicler

By Judy Johns Heathcoe

While tunneling through a mountain in the Russian Southern Urals, a team of engineers are trapped in a deep, large, cavern containing a living rain forest. Looking for a way out, they discover a hermitage that once was home to a historical society who called themselves chroniclers, whose members were able to travel in time to view a famous person or event in order to record history correctly.

In the hermitage library, are the records from many time-traveling chroniclers. They are the privileged few who view the lives of Vincent van Gogh, Edgar Allan Poe, and Nicholas II, last Tsar of Russia, and his family. But hiding out and watching their every move, the remaining chroniclers are determined to keep their existence a secret, even to the point of murdering any that discover them. The engineers find themselves running for their lives through the seemingly endless forest, wondering whether they would eatherface death at the hands of the dangerous and adamant chroniclers. . .or the primeval creatures of the forest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Write Words Inc.
• Release date: Jan 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781613863930

Judy Johns Heathcoe

Judy Johns HeathcoeJudy Johns Heathcoe is an artist, writer, and musician, and has published several articles, poems, and short stories online under the name JD Heathcoe. Other than novels, stories, and poems, she writes songs and plays. She currently lives in Anniston, Alabama.To learn more about Judy, check out her author page on amazon.com, or visit her web site at:http://judyjohnsheathcoe.yolasite.comJudy loves to hear from readers and you may e-mail her at:[e-mail]

Book preview

Prologue

Alina’s murder was more violent than the others of my team. The men had died quickly. I found them, each one, with panic on their faces and a single wound, the arrows finding their mark, the knife blade piercing vital organs. But Alina had resisted such a sudden death.

There was overwhelming signs of her defensiveness. She fought back with all she had. She had tumbled with one of them, smearing the leaves and moss covered ground with swirls and curls, reminiscent of van Gogh’s Starry Night painting. She had rolled downhill to avoid a human pendulum, evidenced by the striations in the earth that overlapped a straight line of skids in the dirt, and a thick vine that dropped from a very high tree and hung there, slack and coiled; but no luckier was she than the victim under the blades in Poe’s story, The Pit and the Pendulum.

Please forgive the morbid visual comparisons. I am speaking, and the device is recording my words as well as my image, and unfortunately, I can’t go back and erase anything I may say that sounds a little queer. In fact, I may well be a little mad by now, and due to the things I’ve seen, I’m subject to ramblings that you may find incredible. The Poe and van Gogh references have merit. If I am rescued or someone finds this device, everyone can see for themselves what I saw.

They had wounded her, but she ran until she tired and then bravely turned to face them. Three against one, they overpowered her despite her valiant defense, and stabbed her in the stomach, broke her legs so that she couldn’t crawl away, and then — left her to die? Oh! No. One of them slit her throat. One last act of violence constituting overkill. Why, I wonder? And then there was one more act that was done before they left her alone. A red rose was laid on her breast. I can think of a few reasons for that. If left by Byron, it was because she was a fellow Russian. If by Bonnie, a cruel mockery of the Poe Toaster. If by Rachel, a tender apology for a deed that had to be done.

But I didn’t see any of that. After she fell in the ravine, she was out of sight of the chronicle device. The rest I did see, goddamn them! I looked in the direction Alina seemed to be pointing, and found this device, active and recording. The chroniclers didn’t notice that she had taken it with her when she escaped from the hermitage. She had placed it below a bush, propped at an angle, to capture her attack. The recording clearly shows the chroniclers, and their faces, a handy asset should the company send a crew to find out what happened to us. They were emotionless, as if carrying out an execution. It was as if killing her was better than the alternative: taking the chance that she might escape and reveal their secret lair, and their unspeakable accomplishments.

My goal is about half a mile from my present location, which is as high as I could climb in this tree. I have no idea what kind of tree it is; the leaves are an unfamiliar shape and the limbs are thick and slimy with moss, but I can see the fissure in the cave wall from up here and roughly judge its distance, although there’s no telling how long it will take to reach it. When we left the tunnel, we were closer to the hermitage than we realized and would have found it sooner if we had gone the right direction instead of blindly wandering for days.

I didn’t climb this tree just to look for the fissure. That discovery was a bonus. I climbed up here to hide from the people who want me dead, although with Bonnie’s skill in tree climbing and swinging, apelike, from these vines, she could easily swoop down on me from above, like a homicidal Tarzan. She could simply knock me off the branch to the other two waiting below to finish me off, in case the fall didn’t kill me. Not only that, but real apes are somewhere in this jungle. I know they are, because I hear them all the time, screaming and calling to each other, even though due to the vastness of this forest I’ve never seen one.

Snakes are also a real possibility, as well as poisonous insects, and, oh yes, my greatest fear, the fiercest animal in this jungle: the saber-tooth tiger! I’m sure she wouldn’t find it difficult to reach me.

I haven’t slept for days. I’m not sure exactly how many. This branch is wide, and I might be able to get a nap tonight, although I’ll sleep light, if at all, and be alert at the slightest sound. Not that being awake is going to save me should one of the dangers find me. But at least I have Igor’s hammer, Li Jian’s monkey wrench, and Jackson’s spade, to defend myself with. The cat may maul me in seconds, the snakes may slowly suffocate me, but the chroniclers will not take me out easily.

Surely, Alina left the device for me to find. And since it is still recording, I will attempt to relate everything that has happened, or as much as I can, before I either reach my goal, or die trying.

Chapter 1

The earthquake, that resulted when the fault finally shifted under the Central Ural Mountains, killed at least ten people and caused major damage to several cities and many villages along the range. But the most damage was to the mountains themselves and a large section of the tracks of the Trans Siberian Railway as it passed through the mountains from Perm to Yekaterinburg. After a week of assessment, the Russian Government decided that clean up of the area might take years, but they didn’t want to wait that long for the restoration of the railroad, the major link between Russian Europe and Asia, and a huge source of income from the workers and tourists that travel the route each year. Already, tourism had been halted and workers were forced to use aircraft to reach their destinations.

After careful consideration of the time and cost, they decided they could reroute the railroad to the southern range, until such time as repair could be done, and the original route could be restored, if a suitable site could be found where railroad construction wouldn’t take so long. Fortunately, a pass was found near Mount Tamantau where the rails could be built through some moderately elevated land, but it would eventually run into a small summit, culminating at a peak of almost 600 feet. Going around it was not an option. Blasting a culvert through the terrain eventually brought them to a point where the only logical method was tunneling. Geological measurements indicated that the tunnel part need only be roughly four miles to reach a point level enough to build another culvert on the other side. Constructing a four mile tunnel through the summit could be done in about six months. That was a time line that the Government could live with.

Advanced Mechanical Ideas (or AMI as the Americans called it), a Russian Engineering Firm, was employed to build the tunnel, and it was equipped with a large tunnel boring machine, or TBM, which would bore through the rock, install segments of strong concrete as it went, and leave behind a sturdy, smooth-walled tunnel. The tracks through the tunnel could be installed fairly quickly, and they would link up with the original route on the other side of the Urals, safely away from the quake-damaged area.

Three weeks ago, with a crew of about twenty-five workers and a project manager named Igor Kazlov, construction of the tunnel, called The TSR Project, began. The operation went smoothly until they had tunneled about sixty-five thousand feet into the mountain, and then something went wrong. Terribly wrong. That’s when they called us.

The Lange Group, named after me, Peter Lange, is a group of international engineers who take on large construction projects involving tunnels. There were eight of us, and we looked like a group of delegates from NATO. Besides myself, there were two Americans, Jackson Salman and Toby Fulmer, and from Wales, Herman Young. Also, there was Li Jian from China, Kim Sanuk from Kenya, Gerry Kubly from Switzerland, and from St. Petersburg, Gregg Stefanoff. I tossed him in at the last minute realizing it would be helpful to have a Russian on board. It was also imperative, for obvious reasons, that at least one of the safety engineers, in case that’s what we found problems with, be Russian. As well as being the CEO, my specialty is environmental engineering, but no matter what our area of expertise, we were contracted as the world’s most notable team of experts in tunnel construction.

As I sat at the table, looking out the window at the snow covered ground speeding by, I tried to maintain the mood that I allowed myself since we left Moscow on the Trans Siberian Railway.

Although it’s late evening in early August, the temperatures are dropping and a light powder is falling from the dark gray-blue sky. There is no moon. Inside this rail car, it’s warm and comfortable, thanks to Klara, our Provodnitsa, or Carriage Attendant, as it can be translated, who supplies us with all our needs, and keeps the living quarters clean and warm. Klara, a handsome, thick, silver-haired woman who is dressed, as always, in a blue skirt and jacket over a white blouse with a blue scarf tied under the collar and hanging neatly over her bosom, enters the car every now and then and refills our glasses or brings us bread. I listened to the clickitty-clak-clak of the metal wheels on the rails and transposed it in my mind to percussion sounds that accompanied a symphony playing in my head. We are at the end of our second day of travel. Dawn will find us at the end of our journey and the beginning of a nightmare. My companions, eating and drinking and laughing over jovial conversation in the car with me, are excited, and see this assignment as an adventure; most have never been to Russia, and are thoroughly enjoying the train ride. If only we were here on a different occasion so we could enjoy the Railway the way it was meant to be enjoyed: sight-seeing at places like Red Square, the Kremlin, the Bolshoi Theater, experiencing the fabulous lakes, forests, towns and the wonderful Russian hospitality. But that will not happen on this trip.

It doesn’t matter which of the two routes we booked, neither get past Perm. From there, the new tracks detour south, to Ufa, and then twist toward the mountain pass where the tunnel is being built. The train we are on, a special shortened version of the traditional passenger train, had been put together for transporting the work crew to the tunnel site.

We will arrive at dawn at the end of the line. Literally. The tracks just stop. Then we will be met by the AMI crew, in vehicles, to pick us up and drive the rest of the short distance to the base of the TSR Project. The train will not wait here for our return. Attached at the back of this train is another engine, and they will simply reverse course and go back to Ufa until contacted again to take us back at the end of the assignment.

The company isn’t a nine-to-five gig, and the seven men with me aren’t my whole company. They are professionals, hand-chosen by me, from different parts of the world, with different skills, that I occasionally ask to leave their present position, and join me in an assignment that calls for their particular expertise. Due to an agreement I made with the employers of each of them, the team members are on consignment, and their jobs will be waiting for them at the end of this assignment.

I hadn’t told the team anything of what we were facing. I had called them in, basically, as volunteers. I wasn’t going to make anyone go that didn’t want to. I didn’t discuss detail; I just told them that it was a six month operation and could be dangerous. I encouraged them to think about it, because if there was someone special they didn’t want to leave, or if the current position they were in was satisfying them, then I would look elsewhere. If anyone had not wanted to join me ... but they all did. All that I called. And I only called seven. Not because seven men were all that I needed, but seven men were all that I would allow myself to sacrifice if things got out of hand. No — I couldn’t think of it in that way. Seven men would be easier to rescue if things got out of hand.

Across from my table sat Kim and Jackson. Gregg sat with Gerry at the next table up, and Li Jian sat across from Herman and Toby at the next table down. Interestingly, they kept company with, not their fellow countrymen, but their fellow craftsmen. Herman and Toby are both architectural engineers, Jackson and Kim are electrical engineers, Li Jian is a civil engineer, and Gerry and Gregg are both mechanical and safety engineers.

Suddenly, Herman was in the seat opposite me, breaking my mood, and interrupting my railway concerto.

Don’t you think it’s time you told us what we’re heading for? I’ve been watching you. You don’t like what you’re thinking. And all you told us was, ‘Something went wrong and they want us to check it out.’ But we’re thinking, it can’t be too serious since you only brought in seven of us.

Well, there are at least twenty-five more personnel at the tunnel, I told him, and we are only needed for guidance and inspection. But since you asked, I plan to debrief you tonight, if everyone will meet in my compartment before bedtime. Pass the word.

You got it Boss, Herman said. And then he slid back out from the table, and rejoined Toby on the other side of the car.

Klara entered to serve us more vodka, and began telling us the mountain folktales.

Let us hope you don’t run into Baba Yaga, she said.

Jeers and chuckles came from the men, and Jackson said, Baba Yaga? Who’s that? Some renegade cold war refugee, who doesn’t know the war’s over?

Laughter followed from the others.

"Nooooooo, Klara said enigmatically. She is an evil witch. She lives in a hut that grows chicken legs out of it, and it walks around the forest so none can find where she lives. But if anyone does find her, she will trick you into her hut, and capture you in a cage, and eat you for dinner."

More jeering and laughter followed until Klara said, cheerily, Don’t worry fellows. I joke with you. My mother used to tell me those stories to scare me into obedience. It gave me nightmares then, but now, I don’t believe it anymore.

Good, replied Jackson, but if we do meet up with her, we’ll just throw Li Jian at her and he can Kung-fu the hell out of her.

Everyone laughed and Li Jian laughed harder than anyone, almost choking on his food and shaking his head, eyes leaking tears.

When the laughter subsided, I advised everyone to get a good night’s sleep, and then I went to my compartment to wait.

I had booked two compartments. Each had four beds. In a few minutes the men came in and sat on the beds facing me, like students in a college classroom. They waited in anticipation as I hesitated a moment, then I proceeded to tell them the whole story.

Am I right to assume you all familiarized yourself with the TSR Project as I instructed? They all nodded. All they had to do was search the Internet. The spring earthquake in the Urals and the TSR Project were hot items on the web. Now here’s what the news doesn’t say. I was informed that, after three weeks of boring, accidents began to happen. There have been seven fires and three... I looked deep into their faces before finishing my sentence. ...three deaths.

The men didn’t even so much as frown, but looked me straight in the eye, waiting for the rest of the story.

Jackson said, Come on Boss. We all know there are risks to tunnel digging, especially if you don’t watch what you’re doing. And besides, this is a political move as well as an economical one. How do we know it’s not sabotage?

Herman said, Maybe not sabotage, but it does sound like human error to me. Fires don’t start themselves, and the others agreed.

Did he say how the three deaths happened? Kim asked.

Two died in explosions that started fires. One was run over by a rail car carrying out muck. At least they think she was run over. Her body was found on the ground, crushed.

Her? The question came from Jackson, but seemed to emanate from all their minds.

Remember, Russian women outnumber the men. Over half the work force, on this project, is women.

Hmmmm, Jackson said, looking at his hands. That changes things.

And it did. No one on this team had ever worked with a large number of women on the job. Not that it mattered to them ethically; the field was open to both sexes and lots of the technical jobs included women: engineers, electricians, and even some TBM drivers. But most men have a sense of chivalry where women are concerned, especially when women are being hurt, or in this case, killed. The men were now more determined to get to the bottom of it. Instead of technicians and engineers, they had become detectives and warriors.

When we get there, I want you all to inspect every inch of the tunnel from start to end, I told them. Jackson and Kim, I want you inspecting the electrical circuitry and hot spots; Herman and Toby, check the construction site outside and inside, look for clues, anything you can find. Gerry and Gregg, check for mechanical and safety problems. Li Jian, stick with me, and when we get to the TBM, you and I will go over every inch of it, and afterwards I intend to get Kazlov to produce every plan and blueprint, every report and statistic, every piece of paperwork he has, for you to inspect, while the rest of you station yourselves to watch for mishaps when we fire it up again. Everybody got it?

They all stood up excitedly. They were ready. I said good night, and four of them went out the door; three stayed in the room and retired to their beds. I actually felt a heavy burden had been lifted, and anticipated a good night’s sleep.

Chapter 2

Dawn came in a robe of darkness, and an ambiance of chilling cold. The team crawled out of their bunks barely awake; I could tell by the way they filed into the dining car, where I waited, and wordlessly sat at the tables. Klara served us a robust breakfast, and pepped us up with her jolly talk, and soon, but with much affectionate good-byes to our Provodnitsa, we were ready to disembark.

We put on our coats and various head coverings, and walked from the train car with packs on our backs: clothes and belongings for the duration. Two people were waiting for us in a bus.

Good morning good morning, said the man from the driver’s seat. He spoke with the hollow, rolling-tongued accent of a Russian speaking English. It was pleasant to hear. He wore square, dark rimmed glasses, which reflected the lights on the ceiling of the bus. Below a straight nose, rosy with cold, he had a full, gray beard. No smile lay within it. He wore a thick, woolen coat, and as expected, his head was covered by a furry Russian hat.

I boarded first, saw Alina in the seat behind the driver, and casually slid in beside her. She didn’t seem to mind. I recognized Alina immediately. She had worked with me on the Alps Project several years back, and I had heard she was the TBM driver for this one. We had had a more-than-friendly relationship back then, but when the job ended, so did our relationship. We went our separate ways.

She glanced at me and grinned politely for only a moment, then turned her face straight ahead. She was clothed nearly identical to the driver, even down to the furry hat.

The driver turned at the waist and offered his hand to me as the rest of the team passed us by. He barely glanced at them.

Igor Kazlov, he said. I am the project manager. Welcome to Russia.

Peter Lange, pleasure to meet you. I returned the handshake.

Alina Gorsky, he indicated her. I didn’t tell him that I already knew her, and she didn’t reveal any recognition either. I know she recognized me, she had to, but I couldn’t tell how she felt about it. Was it resentment for the way we parted when a romance might have been in bloom? Or was she still holding a flame?

She chose to stay behind, stubborn girl. He said that last part with a hint of a smile and a gleam in his eye, no malice intended. But I sent the rest of the crew home. No need paying for work not getting done.

You sent the rest home? But weren’t you informed that there were only eight of us?

"Yes, yes. But it was necessary. When we resolve the problems, I