Rasputin's Secret

By Kenneth A. Mertz, Jr.

Stolen nuclear missiles that will cause the destruction of the Sovietgovernment and open the door that will allow Rasputin's Secret to emerge. The secrets lie in Faberge' Eggs, finding them is only the beginning.

Rasputin's Secret begins with the asassination of the last Tzar of Russia and doesn't stop, even when an American Submarine is lost in the Atlantic Ocean, a fantastic car races ahead of pursuing mercenaries, or when there is a supersonic dogfight in Soviet airspace.

What is Rasputin's Secret and what will happen to the world when it is revealed?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 13, 2006
• ISBN: 9781467068130

Kenneth A. Mertz, Jr.

Kenneth Mertz has published newspaper and magazine articles, poetry and a children's book and this is his first novel.  He spent over 21 years in the U.S. Navy traveling the world and is now settled in Fernandina Beach, Florida.  In his writing, he strives for excitement, intrigue, historic accuracy, humor, and a tale that will leave the reader wondering where the fiction departs from the fact.  Dr. Mertz and Beverly have 3 grown children and 5 grandchildren who are wonderful!  He is involved with his new dental practice, teaching at a local college, numerous organizations and woodcarving.  His foremost love is writing, he has completed a guide to surviving Alzheimer's Disease and is working on two other novels.

Book preview

Prologue

25 May 1968, 1600hours

Alejandro Gomez, the United States Ambassador to the Kingdom of Spain, had locked himself in his office early in the morning and left orders that he was not to be disturbed. His plan was to spend the entire day trying to wade through the mountain of paperwork and message traffic that sat in tall stacks from one side of his desk to the other. While he had only been gone for five days, the never-ending salvos of inquiries, requests, and correspondence had continued with dogged relentlessness. Each page had generated its compulsory three pages of notes and answers from his staff. Ambassador Gomez diligently read each one before signing on the signature line and tossing it into his OUT basket.

Gomez leaned back and sank deeply into his over-stuffed, chocolate-brown leather chair. For a moment, he stared at the dark brown, mahogany desk and the wall of his plush but not overly ostentatious office while his mind took a much needed respite from the tedium. He pushed his glasses up into his hair and rubbed his eyes in an attempt to relieve the fatigue and boredom of his work. The Ambassador knew that his work as the United States Diplomat to Spain was a valuable service to his country but he hoped, no, he longed for some excitement to break the drudgery. Reluctantly, he pulled his glasses back down onto his nose, sighed a deep breath of exasperation, and returned to his labors.

Nearly an hour later, Gomez pushed the button on his intercom and spoke to his secretary, Juanita. Would you bring me another cup of coffee, please?

Two minutes later, Juanita knocked on the office door and entered with the coffee without waiting for Gomez to answer her knocks. Here you are Ambassador Gomez. I suppose that you will be working late tonight?

Yes. I should be able to go home about nine o’clock. But you should go home on time. I can’t imagine needing you any more today.

Juanita smiled and left the office with any further comments. They both knew that she would stay until he was finished for the day. She had been the Consulate secretary for 18 years and was the key to continuity as the Ambassadors changed every five years of so.

Early in her career, as a young senorita, she had given up dating and the possibility of having a family of her own. One thing after another had forced her to break innumerable dates, and now at forty years old, she was hardly in a position to start a family. A torn medial collateral ligament in her left knee had abruptly ended a promising career as a flamenco dancer. Now, after years of work in the Embassy, without much physical activity, had caused her body to abandon it’s formerly ideal proportions.

From her desk, no one could see the dowdy hips and thighs, but they could see her face. Everyone, except the Ambassador, called her Bonita, beautiful, and that was an understatement. In addition to her beauty and effervescence, she was absolutely perfect for her position in the Embassy. And the American staff, from the Ambassador to the lowly Lance Corporal on the Security Detachment, had long since become her adopted family.

Gomez sipped the coffee, light with just a little sugar, and permitted himself to look at the picture on the corner of his desk. He recalled the day that he had taken the photograph of his parents and six brothers and sisters. It was the day he graduated from college. He was the first of the children to attend any school higher than eighth grade and he had done so well as an undergraduate that he had been immediately accepted to a doctoral program in international relations and diplomacy. He remembered how proud his father was when he graduated with a Doctor of Philosophy degree and entered the United States Diplomatic Service. Now here he sat, twenty years of service under his belt and now, a real ambassador. Gomez laughed to himself, took another sip of coffee from the cup, and returned again to the slowly shrinking stack of work that lay before him in his IN basket.

No sooner had he resumed his reading and writing when Juanita interrupted. Mr. Ambassador, she said through the intercom. I know you asked not to be disturbed, but there is a man out here who insists on seeing you. He just arrived and claims that he has some information vital to the United States and the world. What shall I tell him?

Show him in, Juanita, said Gomez, thinking that this may be precisely the excitement that he was dreaming for. In reality, he expected someone needing a visa or some such banal craving. He closed the latest folder and deftly tossed it into the OUT basket.

Juanita knocked and opened the ornately carved door. Then she escorted the brown-robed visitor across the room and directed him to the seat that was in front of the Ambassador’s desk. As usual, she silently retreated from the office and closed the door securely behind her.

What can I do for you, Padre’, asked Gomez?

I am a brother, sir, and I have two items here and a story that I am sure you will find most interesting. I’m afraid that I do not have much time left to live. I have been followed across Europe and you are the only hope I have of getting this information to your government.

The two men talked for thirty minutes before Brother Nitupsar thanked Ambassador Gomez for his time and left the office and the Consulate grounds. Gomez spent the next twenty minutes on a secured telephone line making the most unusual and urgent request of his life. He called for Juanita. Have my car brought around, I have to go to the airport.

But Ambassador Gomez, it is too late to travel tonight. I will make all of the arrangements and you can leave early in the morning. Don’t you think that it is time for you to go home?

All right, Juanita, the Ambassador reluctantly replied, but see that my usual charter plane is ready early in the morning. We’ll file a flight plan when I arrive at the airport.

Yes Mr. Ambassador. Shall I call Mrs. Gomez and tell her to expect you soon?

I will go home when I finish dealing with this matter. See that I am not disturbed.

Gomez used his Polaroid-Land camera to photograph the two items the visitor had left with him, then he penned a brief note and placed it, along with the pictures, in a diplomatic pouch. He addressed the pouch to R. Moore, the director of ISIS and placed it and the items into the safe in his office. Finally, about ten-thirty at night, he went home.

At first light, Ambassador Gomez nervously rode to the airport and took a charter flight to meet the United States submarine that he had arranged to be called in from its patrol. He knew that rarely had any ambassador tried to divert a military vessel and even more rarely had the request been approved. But this time he had been adamant when he called the United States Secretary of State at his home, waking him up at nearly three o’clock in the morning, Washington, D.C. time.

26 May 1968

As the Ambassador was making his trip, the special courier carrying the diplomatic pouch left Madrid on the first flight of the day to Dulles International Airport. He arrived by noon and rode in a United States Government car to the ISIS office in downtown Washington, D. C.

Gaetana Aquila, the Director’s secretary and aide, accepted the sealed pouch and immediately took it in to her boss’s office.

This just arrived by special courier from our Ambassador in Spain, said Aquila. It’s marked with the EYE’S ONLY and URGENT seals. Shall I open it?

Yes Gaetana. You see everything that I see, the Director answered, diverting her eyes from the latest intelligence report that crowded the top of her desk.

Here is a note from Ambassador Gomez and here are two Polaroid photographs. They look like pictures of decorated eggs, said Aquila as she put each of the items in front of the ISIS director.

I don’t’ know for sure, but they look like two of the famous Faberge’ Eggs. We’ll have to look them up to be sure. Get someone on that, would you? Roberta Moore set the photographs aside and took the note in her left hand.

Yes, Ma’am, said Aquila. What does the note say, if I may ask?

This is a very unusual note to be sure. It is hand written on a scrap of paper---and written by the Ambassador himself. All it says is, ‘RUSSIAN MONK BROUGHT THESE. WILL ARRIVE NORFOLK VIRGINIA 29 MAY ABOARD USS TARANTULA. MUST STOP THE SPEAR. GOMEZ.’, read Moore. Send one of our agents to meet the submarine when it docks and don’t forget to put someone in research on this.

Gaetana Aquila left the Director’s office and initiated the search for the identity of the eggs using the slow computer terminal and by manually searching through the small library located in the basement of the James A. Buchanan Federal Office Building. An hour and a half later, she returned to Moore’s office with a disappointed look on her face.

I haven’t been able to come up with anything substantial. The computer says that Carl Faberge’ created 53 eggs similar to the ones in the photographs for the Tsars of Russia. Unfortunately, I have been unable to make any positive identification. I’ll send the photos downstairs, maybe they will have more luck.

Maybe. Thanks for trying. While they are searching, we’ll just have to wait for the real things to show up and then talk to Ambassador Gomez, said Moore before returning to her paper work. Put those in the YELLOW file until we can make sense out of them. I have too much going on in Southeast Asia right now to worry about items with unproven threat potential.

27 May 1968, 1800 hours

Nearly thirty-six hours later, Ambassador Gomez returned to his office noticeably shaken from the trip and extremely tired. He had been hoping for some excitement, but this was not what he had had in mind. In his Consulate office he downed two cups of coffee, black, double sugar, he tried to complete the daily reports and make some notes about his trip. Unfortunately, the exhaustion proved to get the better of him and Gomez decided that he could write the full report in the morning. He locked his safe, desk, and office door and then left for his residence. Juanita locked her desk, made a brief telephone call, and left shortly after Gomez.

The Ambassador hardly recalled the half hour ride home and he was barely able to acknowledge his family before going upstairs to his bedroom. He fell asleep on top of the bed seconds after removing his shirt, trousers, and shoes. An hour after that, he was found dead on his bed. A single slash across his throat had not only silenced his cries for help but had permitted his blood to drain out of his body and saturate the sheets and mattress. His wife had made the discovery and her screams woke virtually everyone in the compound.

Chapter 1

THE HIJACK

Thursday, 30 December 1970, 2 A.M.

In the still darkness of the mountains, a freight train of only ten cars rolled along the tracks looking much like any other freight train. At least that would have been the case had anyone been able to see it. The thin waning crescent moon that should have been out that night was blocked by low hanging clouds, thus, the darkness was virtually total. This train was a special military transport that had been completely painted in a rock and snow white camouflage pattern to hide it during the day. At night, the crew of thirty United States Army guards unrolled monstrous shrouds that blended with the night and kept any internal illumination within the freight cars. The engine had been fitted with a deflecting and cooling system that effectively funneled the diesel exhaust far to the rear of the train and through an ingenious Venturi system, cooled it to the outside temperature, which was sub-zero. Between the camouflage and the exhaust system the train was nearly invisible to a distant observer, and, unless an expert in satellite photography knew exactly what to look for, it was practically invisible from space.

As it approached yet another junction, the electronic, relay controlled switches had already been thrown to allow it to continue, without interruption, along its journey. The engineer and fireman, both civilians, watched the tracks ahead and scanned the gauges that were monitoring the engine’s performance. Occasionally they made any adjustments necessary to keep the system properly tuned and the train on schedule. This was a particularly boring run, especially in the dead of night and when there was extremely limited visibility, on the other hand, the pay was excellent. In front of the engineer was a group of three video monitors that displayed whatever the externally mounted cameras saw. At night, besides being fed through recorders, the signals were amplified and enhanced by a pair of computers that were secured and insulated in a compartment at the back of the engine. Thanks to the National Aeronautic and Space Administration (NASA) and the Department of Defense, computers had shrunk from the room-sized ENIAC to that of a home refrigerator. The only problem with the system was its limited peripheral vision, but then it was primarily intended for train operations, not security.

Except for the country music on the radio that faded in and out as they wound around the hills and through the valleys, there were no other signs of life. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, the train operating crew settled back in their seats to enjoy the ride and share the hot coffee that the assembly installation’s cook had made for them.

The telemetric devices attached to the train and along the tracks relayed instantaneous information to Lieutenant Colonel Theophyllus Wistar Blake, United States Air Force. He stared, almost hypnotically, at the television and electronic monitoring screens mounted in the control room which was hidden behind the bookcase in the back of his office. This job had become more trouble with each passing ‘special’ weapons movement evolution. Special weapons, was a military euphemism for nuclear bombs and warheads that always seemed to amuse him. Trouble, Blake defined more in the terms of bother, basically because he felt that controlling the ultra-secret weapons transfer was still another bureaucratic effort in paper shuffling. There hadn’t been any trouble so far this night, but then there never was. The schedule was so tight that even thirty-second breaks for urination were incorporated into every person’s day.

The method was virtually fool-proof because only the most senior generals and admirals knew the day and the time of the shipment, and only a select few others knew the chosen route and the intended destination. The route and timetable were developed by the massive computers in the Pentagon which also controlled the switches along the route and gave minute-to-minute speed instructions to the engineer. The general public wasn’t even close to aware of the levels in which magnetic tape reels and vacuum tubes had infiltrated the Federal Government in general and the Department of Defense in particular. It wasn’t until the last possible moment that key people were called upon to affect the transfer of the weapons from the hidden assembly plant buried deep in the Sierra Nevada mountains to one of the staging bases. Even the people at the destination didn’t know of the shipment until it was within one hour of arrival.

This time he had been paged at a party and the requisite telephone call had told him to report to his monitor/control terminal within the small room packed with electronics. The usual message, T. W. Blake. Snap. Crackle. Pop. T minus 30, had told him all he needed to know; that he had thirty minutes to get his equipment on-line and signal his readiness to supervise the operation. Blake had cursed under his breath as he put the telephone back into its cradle. He made his way across the room to say good-bye to his host. From thirty feet away, Blake scratched his eyebrow and tugged his right ear lobe, immediately his host understood giving his own ear lobe a tug in reply. Blake backtracked through the crowd and slipped out the front door.

He was quite annoyed at being called away from a military party that was actually pleasurable. Unlike the usual stuffy events with their mandatory attendance, this was a rather a loud, festive wetting down party to celebrate the recent promotion of one of his Navy colleagues. The recently promoted Monte Orlando had tried to explain this particular navy tradition to his friends, but being half-way in the bag, he stumbled over the details. They didn’t really care anyway, all they knew was free food and free booze. LtCol Blake did manage to understand that in the days of wooden ships, when officers received a new gold stripe signifying their promotion, they would pour salt water on it to prematurely age it. This way it more closely resembled the previous stripes, and the sooner people didn’t realize this person was newly promoted the better. In the modern navy, each promotion brings all new stripes with the old ones accumulating in a drawer at home or being reused by the tailor---with no price break to the promotee. Not to be ungrateful, Blake had lifted his tall cola on the rocks with two cherries, and toasted Commander Orlando. Shortly after the toast he quietly thanked Orlando for the party and turned his attention back to the young lady he had met just a half hour earlier.

He had almost gotten to first base with a beautiful Navy Lieutenant and felt that she might have come back to his small home in Arlington Heights after another dance or two. He had spotted her at the buffet table digging a chip into the aluminum bowl of sour cream and onion dip. Over the rim of his upturned glass, Blake looked her over. It was the first time that evening he had not been standing fairly close to her and he took a few extra seconds to etch her into his brain. Lieutenant Chelsea Tyler stood about five feet, eight inches tall and if she weighed over 132 pounds, it was all muscle. She was in top physical condition, the kind of body you could spend all night trying to decide whether you were kissing and caressing the best part. She turned to face away from the table and nodded to Blake as she slid an entire sweet gherkin pickle through her lips. He thought about the two rows of ribbons, only a couple of which were familiar to him, the two gold and blue cords of the aiguillette hanging off her shoulder and looped under her arm, and the gold wings of a naval aviator. An Admiral’s aide, Blake said to himself, I’ll find her tomorrow, how many female, aviator, Admiral’s Aides could there be in the Pentagon, anyway?

Blake had said good night to her moments after hanging up the telephone, not making any bones about being upset to leave her. He had simply told Tyler that he was called back to his office and she knew enough about the Pentagon to not ask where he worked or why he had to leave. He had made the drive easily and the guard, who was used to people coming and going at all hours, had waved him through after he cleared the metal detector. With no one else in his office, he made a pot of coffee for himself. He fired up his equipment and checked the time table that had been printed as soon as everything was on line. Blake looked at the wall clock, noting that he was ahead of schedule by a good three minutes. He finished the coffee in his cup and pressed the button on the control panel that told everyone involved in the complex loop he was ready.

Tomorrow is another day, he thought to himself as he refilled his coffee mug. Blake removed his uniform blouse before he leaned back in his chair and began to concentrate on the task at-hand. The tracking lights on the large map occupying the entirety of one wall signaled him that the movement had started. He pushed a button to acknowledge the change in the train’s position. He reached out and pressed a series of buttons on the console before him and a bank of six television monitors flashed on. Cameras that were mounted on the train showed the roadway ahead and behind as well as the surrounding countryside. Blake could see what the engineer and fireman saw as well as some aspects of the train and the countryside they couldn’t. He could also look into each car and watch the activity or hopefully, the inactivity of the guards and cargo.

Blake had done this job at least fifty times before and this should be the last time since he had finally been given orders to a nice, regular, Pentagon job and his relief had been named. All he had to do was wait for the new man to report in the morning and then complete the turnover in two days before taking two weeks leave. He pulled his necktie loose and unbuttoned the top button before he rocked his chair back and took a long drink from his refilled coffee cup. Blake watched the monitors as he mused.

His new Pentagon posting would have him anchored to a desk keeping track of all the nuclear warheads in the inventory. This was not a particularly challenging position since he was not responsible for the inventory, only keeping track of the numbers and locations of the weapons. After two years of stress and being called at all hours of the day and night, he felt this was the least he deserved. The new job would have him in an office not too far from his current office and the only drawback was that he would be next in line to resume his current position if the new person was unable to complete the two-year tour. This was the Miss America Runner Up Clause that he had been warned about when he first took the job. He was not particularly concerned since no one had ever been relieved and the best part was that Blake would be able to keep the small suburban home and continue to take the bus to work. He would finally have nearly normal hours and not have to be worry about being interrupted by the damned beeper he always carried. The beeper, he said, this time talking to the little black plastic device, you will be the very first thing I give to the new guy. He chuckled to himself, in an evil sort of way, and returned his attention to the console that surrounded him from fingertip to fingertip.

This is a new route, he mumbled as if describing the scene to his intended relief. The train is traveling pretty far north, either hugging the mountain sides or going through the maze of tunnels. Just like with a woman, he continued. First you caress and hug them, then you plunge the train deep into the tunnel, again and again, just to get a simple load to some unseen destination. He laughed out loud at the analogy he had created before he leaned back into the chair to watch the 20 man guard and operating crew protect and manage the train. Half of the crew was asleep in the next to last car, the rest were at their stations; watching the train, the countryside, the black night sky, or the tracks ahead.

Shoot, Blake said using his Georgia drawl to elongate the word and as if he were talking to the invisible confidant again, this has to be the most boring dang job in the whole got-danged Air Force. He pushed several buttons in succession to switch camera views and took another sip of the steaming coffee.

After a few moments, he was able to determine that the newest missile in the nuclear arsenal was in the eighth car. He had become quite the expert in reading guard positions and found a little enjoyment in trying to guess which car carried the ordinance before verifying it with the internal cameras. Blake thought that this was unusual, typically the cargo was in a freight car near the middle of the train. Perhaps they are concerned about the snow, he mused. As usual, the brass made all of the decisions, all he did was watch.

As the train emerged from the darkness of one tunnel and into the moonlight shining on a trestle bridge, it passed through a misty cloud. For a couple moments, Blake could not see anything from the externally mounted cameras. Instinctively his hand moved toward the panic button. He recited the emergency checklist to himself. Blake knew exactly who he had to call and in what order, should he decide something seemed to be wrong. Hastily he pressed the buttons on the console before him with his other hand to view the scene from different cameras and stared at the lingering haze around each car of the slow moving train. His left hand was still poised on the protective cover of the panic button. The train finally emerged from the mist. There was something eerie, something wrong.

Then it came to him, he knew just what seemed wrong with the scene, there was no activity. It was as if he was watching a ghost train. Lieutenant Colonel Blake began to lift the protective cover over the PANIC button to initiate the alarm sequence but was startled by the noise of cloth rustling behind him. Then he heard the snake-like hiss of a blowgun dart.

As he began to turn his head, a long steel dart penetrated his hand, pinning it to the desk top. He completed the turn in time to watch a second dart leave the blowgun. The small, almost silent projectile pierced his skull between his eyes, rotating as it passed through his head and finally coming to rest in the wall on the other side of the room. Blood and brains dripped out of the holes on the opposite sides of the Lieutenant Colonel’s head as his face crashed to the desktop sending blood splattered papers flying in all directions.

The assailant looked at the screen in time to see a helicopter emerge from the mountain mist. Four men, who had been sitting in the helicopter’s open side doors, released bags that spewed out heavy ropes as the bags fell to the train below. Simultaneously, the four men ‘fast roped’ to the top of the eighth freight car. Three of the men placed small satchel charges on the roof and they leapt to the safety of the adjacent cars moments before the charges blew. Returning to the eighth car, they entered through a hole they had just blown in the roof. It took merely seconds to be sure that no one beside themselves was alive, their automatic weapons were unneeded since the poison gas cloud the train had driven through ended all life after two inhalations. The fourth man placed another charge, this one from inside the freight car, blew a small hole in the front wall, one man appeared at the jagged edges of the hole in the weapons car. Carefully climbing out, he slid down and released the coupling to allow the last three cars to coast to a stop and even more slowly, begin to roll back down the mountain. Another climbed out a different jagged hole in the rear of the boxcar and disengaged the other coupling mechanism.

Still traveling backward at the same relative speed, the cars continued to accelerate down the moderate grade. The robed man who had disconnected the last cars from the weapons car turned the trick wheel to engage the mechanical brakes. The car began to slow down as the brakes pressed against the wheel drums, but without brakes, the last two cars hurdled backward down the tracks. It would not be long before their speed would exceed the forces that kept them on the tracks and they would fly off through the cold mountain air, smashing on the valley floor below. This type of incident that would make it exceedingly difficult to find, much less identify, the bodies of the security force.

Far up ahead, the remainder of the ghost train continued along its way, unimpeded until the lack of control caused it too, to leave the tracks to become a twisted wreck on the canyon floor. From the monitor, Blake’s killer watched as another train engine emerged in front of the lone freight car from a secluded access tunnel that led from an abandoned mine. The electric switches had already been over ridden and thrown to put the new train and the boxcar on the same section of track. When they met in the darkness of the next tunnel, they became one.

The man in the control room stared at the bank of video monitors coldly as the ghost train steamed off into the night while the hijacked box car traveled on a different section of track for its rendezvous with the rest of the team.

This theft added one of the most critical components to the project. At precisely the right moment, the brown robed man in Blake’s office pushed the ‘all-clear’ button to tell the Special Weapons Duty Officer in another part of the Pentagon that everything was still all-right. He set a small device near the middle of the console and molded the plastic explosive so that it conformed to the panel’s contours, he set the timer, took one last glance at Blake to be sure he was dead and calmly turned and left the room.

In less than an hour, the hijackers and their train arrived at an abandoned mining town where the container holding America’s latest and most destructive nuclear missile was removed by a band of brown robed men. Several men with welding torches blazing attacked the freight car and reduced it to rubble in fairly short order. The pieces would be buried and all traces of their activity removed before they reabandoned the former mining town as the settlers had done many years before. The missile was secured inside a small rented truck and driven to a field about 100 miles from the town where it was loaded on an old DC-9 for yet another leg of its trip to the final destination.

*----*----*

On the other side of the world, at precisely the same moment, a similar event was unfolding.

Deep beneath the perma-frost, the guards and engine crew of the five-car freight train were getting their final instructions from Colonel Martinak of the Soviet Army. The heavily armed security force, dressed in heavy overcoats, double insulated gloves, and fur covered hats were standing at attention listening attentively to the familiar instructions they had all heard many times before. Some of these men had heard them so often that they had lost count and could recite them from memory.

Comrades, Colonel Martinak began, this is probably the most important shipment you have ever been assigned to protect. We have complete confidence in you and are sure that you will continue to bring pride and honor to your unit. He droned on for fifteen minutes espousing the various particulars of Communist Party doctrine, describing the rewards for success, and dwelling heavily on the penalties of failure. He was not the Political Officer assigned to the unit, but his speech would have rivaled the best. Martinak did not talk out of fear or because of orders, he spoke with an educated brain and a dedicated heart.

Three years near the Arctic Circle and beneath the perma-frost had toughened the soldiers against the savage weather and made them slaves of the boredom and the routine. For half of the security force this would be the last briefing because they would be leaving the train when it arrived at the Soviet weapons station. They had all been given embassy assignments around the world---a small reward for the intense isolation they had endured and their dedication to the communist doctrine.

Captain Leonov, who was in command of the elite guard unit said, Thank you, Comrade Colonel. We will not fail in our duties. It is an honor to serve the Party!

He snapped a salute to Colonel Martinak who returned it with equal smartness and then turned to his men and ordered them to their posts. As they scrambled to their positions, the engineer slipped into his seat, checked all the gauges, and eased the throttle forward. The mammoth diesel engine’s roar was even more deafening in the ice cave and everyone had to cover their ears to prevent pain. The thick exhaust smoke rose to the apex of the cavern and added its dark sooty particles to those previously deposited there. Huge ventilator fans struggled to pull the smoke from the room and push it through long vent pipes that exited the complex many miles away. The journey through the pipes buried in the snow and ice cooled the exhaust gases and mixed them with outside air. When the gases emerged they had been diluted and cooled to the point where they were almost undetectable. A few minutes in the Arctic air and another snowfall would hide the evidence of activity permanently.

The engine groaned and strained against the cold tracks before it began to move. The engineer maintained a very slow pace while waiting for the two snow clearing engines to assume their positions at the head of the convoy. For clearing the snow and ice from the tracks, two short but extremely powerful yard engines had been modified by attaching monstrous rotating blades to the front. When activated, the blades cut a fifteen foot wide swath through the snow before blowing it high into the air. They also had special scrapers that rode along the rails to be sure that nothing remained that might cause a derailment.

Now, with everything in line, the three diesel engines continued forward and through the narrow tunnel that had been hewn through the ice and rock. The engineers, in constant radio contact, simultaneously advanced the throttles a couple more notches to give their trains enough power to negotiate the upgrade leading to the surface. As the lead engine tripped a small switch on the tracks, a series of motors came to life to raise the massive steel doors that stood between the convoy and the harsh Arctic elements. The dull drone of the hydraulic pumps forced the thick fluid through the reinforced tubing and into the massive hydraulic cylinders. The force increased and the doors began to move, cracking ice and lifting the snow that had piled up since the last time the doors had been opened. Just as the doors were fully open, the trains emerged from the silver glow of the artificial lighting and the ice walls and into the eerie Arctic sunshine. For many of the men this was the first natural light they had seen since their last detail many weeks ago.

The first four hours of the journey would be needed to cover the shortest and most rugged leg of the trip. To cut a clean path in the deep mountain snow for the freight train, the snow clearing engines could only proceed at a slow pace. While this increased the anxiety of the security force, it was necessary in order to prevent overheating or an accident. The lead snow blower chopped through the snow and ice sending the particles high into the freezing air, as though it were a natural storm, the snow drifted through the air and fell on the terrain nearby and the freight train bringing up the rear. Men who usually enjoyed winter snow quickly grew tired of the ceaseless storm that blew directly into their faces and sent icy droplets running down their necks. Exterior guard duty was a long way from romping in the snow, one young corporal thought to himself and then winced as another heavy cold mass blew into him, assisted by the prevailing wind that now raged perpendicular to the train.

All of the members of the guard force busied themselves by making security checks and rechecks before the section leaders reported to Leonov that all was well. The Captain then split his men into the on-duty and off-duty sections. He watched as half of the force left the warm safety of the troop car and assumed their positions at various guard posts about the train. Those who had started the trip on the outside were relieved and sent inside to re-warm themselves.

This leg of the journey always made him the most nervous and the most anxious because of the laboriously slow pace. He tried to busy himself with paperwork while the off-duty section waited for their turns to go outside and relieve their comrades. He had to constantly monitor the outside conditions and the progress of the train convoy in order to pace his men. The boredom and cold could sap a man’s vigilance and strength extremely fast and his objective had always been to push the men to the limit and then another five minutes. Using this technique, Leonov had managed to increase the time of an exterior watch from twenty to nearly forty-five minutes, this had led to a significant decreased requirement for manpower. His increased efficiency had been duly noted by his superiors and his next assignment was the reward.

Finally, much to Leonov’s relief, they reached an area of mountains that had more shallow snow allowing them to proceed at a faster speed. The ever-present hazard of snow slides and avalanches were still present and Leonov’s personal vigilance was needed now more than ever. From his seat behind the small desk, he rose to his full five feet ten and one half inches. Despite the heat within his command compartment, he shivered and stomped his heavy boot covered feet on the floor. Leonov took his overcoat from the hook behind him and put on his gloves before climbing the metal ladder to the observation dome. He took the high-powered binoculars from the padded compartment and began to survey the surroundings.

The avalanche crews have done well, he commented to Lieutenant Ustinov, the second in command, who had just climbed the ladder to join his leader. They have blasted all of the possible snow slides free---we will have a safe and easy trip. Soon I will be promoted to Major and attending the Frunze Academy, then you will be in charge of this train. I have told Colonel Martinak about your dedication and you will be promoted as soon as you return. How does that suit you, Comrade Captain?

Lieutenant Ustinov smiled, Thank-you Comrade Major, he said taking the liberty of referring to Leonov using his pending new rank. I will not disappoint you or the Party. If you will excuse me, I must see to the guards.

You really do enjoy all this cold, snow, ice, and isolation don’t you Ustinov?

I was born in the cold, my father was cold, and it is fitting that I serve Mother Russia in the cold. Yes, I enjoy the cold. I can do better than survive in the cold, I can thrive. It is my most sincere desire to command troops in a winter war.

I would not want to fight against you, Leonov replied with a faint smile before returning his attention to the outside.

Just as Leonov was beginning to enjoy the ride, something along the track ahead of them caught his attention. The snow along the track in this sector was deeper than originally estimated and he knew this would put a heavier load on the lead snow blower. Before he could put down his binoculars, the engineer in the lead engine called Leonov on the radiotelephone. Comrade Captain, the snow is particularly deep and wet. My engine is beginning to become dangerously overheated. I need to pull off at the next siding or risk destroying the engine and blocking the convoy. The other snow blower should be able to take you the next fifty kilometers, until you are out of the mountains.

Very well, Comrade engineer. You may pull off the main line at the next opportunity. We cannot risk stopping the train. What will you do?

Comrade Captain. After you have passed and my engine has cooled down, I will follow in your cleared path. I have plenty of food and warmth.

Within a few kilometers, the engineer in the lead snow blower managed to find a siding. Electronically, he managed to activate the controls that lined him up with the siding and pulled his engine off the railway and out of the path of the rest of the convoy. As soon as he was out of the way, he realigned the switch, keeping the convoy on its proper track. The engineer watched as the convoy moved past him and waved to Leonov.

Behind his smile was serious concern. He still had to back up to return to the main line, this meant two more changes of the switch, he hoped the intense cold had not taken all of the elasticity from the steel rails. He activated the controls and the indicator light changed from red to green, he smiled and reversed down the track past the switch. When he was several meters from the switch, he activated the controls again, they balked, and he tried again, this time slowly moving to properly align the tracks. With a sigh of relief, the engineer returned his attention to his gauges. The engine, now at idle, was slowly bringing the temperature back down. The cooling had begun when the temperature was midway in the red zone, now it was in the low end of the red. When it returned to the middle of the green zone, he would set out and try to catch the convoy.

Then he felt the sudden pang of loneliness. He looked for the rest of the convoy, but could not see them. He tried his radio, but the distance and mountains put them out of range. Above the drone of his engine he heard the quiet of the mountain. He settled uneasily in his seat staring at the gauge as if willing it to come down would make it so.

As the engineer in the first snow blower was managing his problems, the convoy was struggling with its own. For the next few kilometers, the progress had been incredibly slow and the new lead engine was now beginning to overheat. Fifteen minutes later, with the temperature gauges creeping into the red zone, they had reached a mountain pass where the snow was lighter and less deep. This fortunate change in the conditions allowed each of the engineers to ease their throttles forward. Now they could try to make up for the lost time and cool the engines that were now under less strain. Slowly, the gauges showed a steady decrease in diesel temperature and both the engineers radioed to Leonov the improved status of their engines. Leonov was pleased and took a long gulp from his tea, now not nearly as hot as when he had poured it a few minutes ago.

Leonov knew that the mountains are filled with pockets of many radically different types of weather. On one side, the weather could be cold, crisp, calm and clear but then, as the train turned around another bend or exited a tunnel, the weather could become a harsh, dense, blizzard again. Neither the engineers nor Captain Leonov could afford to be anything less than being acutely aware of their environment. Normally, the three engineers and Leonov remained in virtually constant communication, each reporting the railway, the mountains, the sky, and the weather as they saw it. Now, with one engineer missing and a valuable set of experienced eyes unavailable they altered their normal convoy pattern. Leonov had his train slow a little to allow the gap between them and the snow blower to widen, this, he hoped, would help compensate for his increasing fears. It helped a little psychologically, but not enough for Leonov and Ustinov to even begin to relax. Leonov paced in his command car. He climbed the ladder to scan as much of the scene as he could before climbing down the ladder to refill and drain his glass of tea. Despite the chill in his car, Leonov profusely oozed nervous perspiration that soaked his underclothes.

With the lighter snow on the tracks but the looming threat of worsening weather, Leonov ordered the convoy to proceed along at an accelerated pace. He hoped the additional speed and the foul weather would act as a protective cover, at least until the third element of their unit was able to rejoin the group and provide observation from the rear. Leonov’s tension did not seem able to penetrate the thin walls of his car to reach his men.

Because of the weather and the remote position of the train, many had been lulled into a false sense of safety and had grown somewhat complacent. Those expecting to be transferred goaded those who still had time left for this duty assignment. Those preparing to go on exterior watch were trying to get as warm as possible, but those returning to the warmth seemed to add to the cold. Together, many of them drank tea or played cards while some of the others downed glasses of vodka and sang patriotic songs. Drinking on duty, although entirely illegal, was not uncommon in this or any other place in the Soviet Union. The vodka would lead to a false sense of warmth and confidence while clouding judgment and reducing a soldier’s combat edge.

Again, without warning, the weather worsened, as if it could get any worse. This did not surprise anyone since it had randomly occurred all along the entire route through the frozen wasteland and mountains of the northern Soviet Union. It seemed that just when the harsh weather would abate slightly, a new blizzard would blow up.

Surely working in the labor camps in Siberia could not be any worse than this duty, commented Ustinov.

Except that we get paid and have free train rides, Leonov added.

Suddenly, while they were rounding the bend of a narrow mountain pass, an explosion rocked the train and interrupted the monotonous dull roar of the engines. Just above the snow blower, a wall of snow, ice and rocks raced down the mountain and caught the small locomotive broadside. The avalanche sent it tumbling down the side of the mountain nose first and then end over end throwing train parts high into the air with every somersault. It finally came to rest at the bottom of the gorge in a steaming pile of snow, rocks and twisted wreckage.

Laying several kilometers behind the main train, the first snow blower still sat, idling its engine, and waiting for the temperature gauge to normalize. The desolate silence was broken by a strange noise. The engineer stared forward, but he could not see anything except the dingy mountain mist. He listened intently. He heard only echoes as the sound bounced off the mountains and the valley below him out of his line of sight. As if anticipating imminent danger, the engineer switched his locomotive into forward and advanced the throttle. He mind sensed, but in his heart he knew the convoy was in danger and he had to reach them as quickly as possible, even if it meant blowing up his diesel in the process. Those men on the train were not just uniforms, they were his friends. He knew them, their families, and their dreams.

The engineer in the ordinance train instantly yanked the throttle back and applied all the brakes the train could muster. His seasoned quick reactions not withstanding, the train plowed into the wall of debris blocking the track. The explosion above the train had alerted most of the security force and some men were even able to brace themselves against the inevitable forward momentum