The Tsarina’s Jewels by R. K. Olson
Editor’s Note: Read the previous adventure of pilot Boyd by clicking the link: “The Vladivostok Express by R. K. Olson”
* * *
The Tsarina’s Jewels by R. K. Olson
Time: 0410 Over the Kerch Strait, Crimea
Jackie Boyd lied.
He’d never piloted a glider.
But the money was too good to leave on the table. Fifty percent upfront.
In gold.
They paid through the nose for someone who could fly planes and gliders. Someone who wouldn’t ask questions.
Behind a roadside tavern, the gold was buried, waiting for Boyd’s return.
Never trust a bank or anyone with your money.
Boyd frowned.
The flimsy construction of the glider gave him pause to reconsider his participation in this British Army mission. The fabric-wrapped glider he was sitting in had a metal and wood frame, with a plywood floor that sagged in the middle. The glider’s fabric walls rippled and shook like leaves as the British bomber towed the glider into position. Wind whistled through the glider. Glue, wire, and the occasional nail held the glider together. The builders designed it for a single mission. Then it was firewood.
It was chilly and Boyd was glad he was wearing his leather jacket.
Once in position at a thousand feet, the bomber would release the glider to the mercies of the wind currents. It was custom-built for this mission with a sixty-foot wingspan and forty foot fuselage. The glider’s shape resembled a cross, with a torpedo-shaped mostly fabric-covered fuselage and extra-long wings. In the pre-dawn muddy light, the glider looked black as it sliced through the summer nighttime sky.
The five men crammed into the glider all contributed to its rank smell of sweat, petrol, and gun oil.
Boyd’s hands were sweaty, holding the stick he’d use to land the glider. The back of his neck was moist with sweat.
British Army Major Alexander Banfield sat next to Boyd as the bomber, with its loud droning motor, towed the glider over the Kerch Strait on the Crimea Peninsula.
Below the glider it was a pool of blackness. Boyd scanned the night sky and watched the stars grow smaller and more remote. Stars were always brightest in the hour before dawn.
If everything went to plan, he’d land the glider during that razor’s edge moment between the darkness of night and the light of the day. That timing would offer enough light to spot a landing but also be dark enough to provide cover.
“Outfox the Bolsheviks, I say!” said Banfield. Short and squat, he was built like a fireplug. “Stealth in the sky! We’ll glide like wraiths over Kerch right into the belly of the Kerch Peninsula.”
The Major sported a pencil-thin mustache and short cropped hair on a square head. He, like the others, wore a khaki uniform. The creases on his trousers and shirt sleeves were sharp enough to slice bread. A knit watch cap covered his brown hair.
Three other faces were undiscernible in the somber gloom that settled in the glider.
The Major pulled out a large gold pocket watch and angled it in the pre-dawn darkness to see its face.
“We are approaching the release point. Let me repeat,” said the Major. “Our mission is to find and remove the Tsarina’s jewels before the Reds even know we were here. The jewels go to London and the diplomats take over from there. They can figure out what to do with the jewel to help the White Russians’ war effort.”
Boyd wished Banfield would shut-up.
The Major continued, “It was brilliant of the Tsarina to hide her jewels before Lenin executed her and her family. The Tsarina’s jewels won’t buy many guns, bullets, and planes. It’s the symbolism that’s important, especially since the Reds seemed to have gotten the Russian crown jewels. This Russian Civil war started so soon after World War One that no one had time to breathe!”
Boyd understood that the Communists, or “Red Russians” were fighting everybody else, collectively called “White Russians”. America, France, England, and others all sent troops and weapons to Russia to support the Whites. Boyd was here because it offered an opportunity to make good money selling his piloting skills.
He ticked off in his head the plan Banfield had devised, which included landing south of Kerch and using motorcycles to reach the village where the Tsarina’s jewels were hidden. Then ride the motorcycles to another village and a waiting plane to fly them away. The villages–Ptashkino and Marfovka—were two small specs on a map amidst rolling cultivated fields.
“Isn’t the Crimea under White Russian control? Why are we stealing the jewels?” said Boyd in American-accented English.
“What? I say! Stealing?” stammered Banfield. “Nothing of the sort. Merely delivering them to the rightful owners.”
“Sounds like robbery to me,” said Boyd. One of the three men sitting behind him in the glider snorted with amusement.
The Major turned on the black American pilot with a flushed face and eyes sparking. “Robbery? If you were in the British Army, not a damn mercenary, you’d learn some discipline. Just do your job and earn your pay. I don’t see why we needed a negro American pilot. A British pilot would have done the job.”
Boyd turned on the Major sharply, with dark eyes full of thunder. “You need me. I’m the best damn pilot in this war and the guy that will get you in and get you out in one piece.” He locked his hard eyes on the Major. “Anytime we’re on a plane, I’m in charge. You take orders from me. Don’t forget it.”
“As long as you take the King’s schilling, you report to me, Boyd.”
Boyd was satisfied that the rant had silenced Banfield. A thin smile etched across his smooth, ebony face. There was strong bone under the taut skin of his face and his jaw was firm.
The two British Army privates in the glider whispered to each other and wiped grins off their faces.
Privates Pinch and Samson were from the convict brigade. The army promised them release from jail and a full pardon after they completed the mission. The blonde, slim man was called Mickey the Pinch. He was a thief and a career burglar. Pinch was thirty years old with a ready smile, a long thin nose and gaunt features.
The other man’s bulging biceps and meaty shoulders strained against his soldier uniform. Samson’s long black hair and bushy beard reminded Boyd of a picture he’d seen in a history book of Black Beard, The Pirate. Samson killed five men—all British sailors – with his bare hands in a bar brawl the year before. The British army threw him into jail and tried to forget about him. The British Navy wanted him hung.
Sitting in the tail section of the glider, bathed in heavy shadows so all Boyd could make out was the outline of British Army Captain and explosives expert, Mason Dix. Dix watched the world with quiet blue eyes that twinkled in amusement. He was clean-shaven with a receding chin and a smile on his lips. His uniform was wrinkled and disheveled. Boyd was told Dix volunteered for this mission.
Boyd knuckled his dark eyes and adjusted his long leather coat. He smiled, releasing the tightness in his jaw. He scratched his short black hair and thought about what the people back in Alabama would say if they saw him flying through the sky. A sharecropper’s son that wanted to fly.
America wouldn’t let him fly because he was black. He cursed his country and fought for France in World War One and worked his way up from mechanic to pilot. He engaged the enemy a dozen times before he was twenty-four years old.
America had no use for him, so he had no use for America.
I’ll make my money and show all those people.
Boyd twisted around and addressed the two privates and the captain, “All you need to know is that I’m the guy that’s going to save your sorry asses when it hits the fan.”
“I like a pilot with confidence,” said Dix, yawning.
A large metallic “thunk” vibrated through the glider. The next sound was the tow rope falling away. The glider dropped five feet and then caught an updraft as Boyd goosed the stick. Gradually, the bomber’s droning engine faded in the distance.
They were free of the tow plane and gliding.
& & &
Boyd steadied the craft and trimmed it. The glider was alone in the air with the wind rushing around and over the small craft.
They had a tailwind, however, the rising sun would warm the air, effecting the glider’s lift, reducing the range.
“We need ten miles,” said Banfield.
“Might be too much weight on board,” said Boyd, nodding toward the British-made Douglas motorcycles fixed to the wall struts of the glider. They mounted two on each side to balance the weight.
“We can always throw Samson overboard. That will lighten the load,” said Pinch. Samson grinned savagely, flashing white teeth through his black beard.
0457 Beyond Kerch
The five men were silent as the sun rimmed the horizon. Boyd kept the stick steady, trying to climb the updrafts. No one said a word for many minutes. Dix lit a cigarette and its smoke eddied and curled about the group’s heads.
Sweat beaded on Boyd’s forehead and rolled down his nose. His heart was in his mouth. He’d have to land soon. It would be his first time landing a glider. It had seemed so much easier talking about it a few days ago. Talk was always easier.
Banfield broke the silence. “Land this thing. We are far enough inland and have some light,” said Banfield, peering out the cockpit window..
“I’m going in farther. I’m going to get as much distance as I can out of it.”
Banfield didn’t respond.
Boyd peered ahead for a landing spot as the stars winked out and faded. The ground beneath him had turned into a dull bed of silver.
He could feel the glider losing altitude. Then, in the growing light, he spied a field ahead and nudged the stick to ease the glider in that direction. Suddenly, the glider dropped like a stone before Boyd caught a draft and then lost it again. Boyd worked the stick as the glider plummeted.
He didn’t know if his airspeed was too fast or if the glide path was going to work.
The glider had no brakes and rudimentary controls. He raised the cable operated spoilers to disrupt the airflow over the wings and slow the glider. The design included skis attached to its belly for landing and sliding across the ground.
He did his best to reduce speed and adjust the angle of descent. He raised the nose and glided parallel to the ground, wheat tassels scraped the belly of the glider.
The glider skated over the dew-covered ground and Boyd tensed for impact. He was wrenched forward out of his seat as the glider plowed into the soft dirt of a freshly harvested wheat field. The glider skipped once over the field, clipping the right wing and snapping it in two with a loud crack. The glider bounced over the ground three times before coming to a stop.
“Good work, Boyd,” said Dix. The others breathed out audible sighs of relief.
“Jackie Boyd can fly anything!” whispered Boyd.
Banfield eyed Boyd for a second with pursed lips. “Everyone out. Get the motorcycles.”
Samson kicked open the glider door. Pinch ducked out through the door, followed by the others.
Boyd took his time getting up. Banfield greeted him by handing Boyd a Winchester pump-action sawed-off shotgun. At six-feet-tall, Boyd towered over the stocky Banfield.
“No thanks,” said Boyd, patting his shoulder holstered Mauser. “I’m not one of your soldier boys.” His mind flashed to an image of the long, needle-like knife in his boot. He didn’t share that information.
“Take it,” ordered Banfield.
“I’m here to fly. Not shoot.” Boyd snatched the weapon out of Banfield’s hand. Banfield stared hard into Boyd’s eyes for a moment. Boyd returned the stare.
Dix was busy issuing a Thompson Submachine gun to Samson. Pinch was holding a shotgun. Banfield wore a Webley belted on his hip and distributed extra ammo and 30-round box magazines for the tommy guns.
The Major pulled out a gold pocket watch and squinted at it in the uncertain light.
“We have twenty-two minutes to un-rack the motorcycles and move out. Private Samson. Motorcycles.”
Samson ducked back into the glider and ripped the motorcycles off the glider’s metal frame shoving them through the door to Pinch. He yanked a side car from the glider and Pinch attached it to a motorcycle modified for it and locked the sidecar into place. A machine gun was mounted on the sidecar.
Dix lit a cigarette and offered one to Boyd.
“Don’t mind the Major. He’s bloody army through and through,” said Dix. His blue eyes twinkled in amusement. “We all have a role to play in this grand thievery of the Tsarina’s trinkets. Yours is to fly. Mine is to make things go boom.”
Boyd’s jaw relaxed. He liked Dix’s calm approach to life. “Explosives expert? Explosives is not something I’d like to try.”
Dix chuckled. “It’s simple. All you need to know is to attach the red wire last and snip it first. The rest is easy.” He flicked his cigarette butt away. The cigarette’s smoldering ember traced an arc through the gray light before landing on the remnants of harvested wheat stalks still laced with dew.
“The Douglas motorcycle is a solid, sturdy machine. A bloody workhorse,” said Banfield, squeezing the handbrakes of his motorcycle. He straddled the four horsepower horizontally opposed twin-cylinder engine with a fuel tank sitting above an array of pipes, gears, and a carburetor. The engine powered the chain that turned the tire.
“Just like the Major. British-sturdy” Boyd heard Pinch whisper under his breath.
The men stomped down on the kick-starters and the motorcycles growled and clattered to life in puffs of gray smoke. The motorcycles sounded extra loud to Boyd in the morning stillness of the wheat field, already picked clean. Birds squawked in a small stand of trees, startled from their slumber by the motorcycles.
Each man fiddled with their throttles. Samson’s motorcycle had the sidecar attached for Pinch.
Heat lightning flashed, illuminating the small group on motorcycles in the middle of the wheat field. Drizzle spat down from the somber, gray sky.
“What are these?” asked Boyd, pointing at thin silver tubes mounted on each side of the engine.
“Nitrous oxide. Turn the lever to goose the engine with it and you get a ten second burst of speed. Might come in handy,” said Dix as he strapped his tommy gun to his motorcycle. “Wheels on these buggers are wider too.”
“We are behind schedule. Check your oil and petrol. Let’s move out.” Banfield pocketed his watch and flattened his pencil-thin mustache with thumb and forefinger.
“Did you know, Private Pinch, that today is the Feast of the Dormition of the Theotokos.”
“No, sir,” replied Pinch with a questioning look.
“Eastern Orthodox holy day. We call it the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Follow me.”
The four men straddled the motorcycles, sitting on the wide leather seats with thick springs, providing a measure of comfort. Pinch slipped his lanky frame into the sidecar. The spoked wheels of each motorcycle sunk into the moist earth.
Banfield led the way, with the other motorcycles trailing behind in a rough single file.
As the August sky continued to lighten, heat lightning flashed, promising a prickly hot day with rain showers.
& & &
Boyd’s motorcycle vibrated beneath him as it bumped over the harvested wheat fields, churning up mud and spraying dirt. He skirted a dozen stonewalls or fences. The air was thick and heavy. The gray exhaust from the Douglas motorcycles lingered in the air.
After half-an-hour riding through a spattering of rain, Banfield slew his motorcycle around and called a halt. He pulled a map out of his pocket and unfolded it. “We are in good shape. Three miles outside our destination of the village of Ptashkino, I reckon.” He examined his pocket watch. “And we are two minutes ahead of schedule. Bully!”
“Let’s grab the Tsarina’s trinkets, blow up a bridge and get out of here,” said Dix.
“Quite,” coughed Banfield. Continuing he said, “If we are separated, the plane to fly us out of here is about seven miles north, near the village of Marfovka. It was the closest place we could have a plane ready. Boyd, be ready to fly.”
“Count on it,” replied Boyd.
I want the rest of my money.
Boyd’s leather jacket protected him from the rain, but the humidity made his khaki trousers damp. Mud splashed up on the cuffs. Boyd shook his head. A single drop of water slid down his back.
“Let’s get moving,” said Boyd over the rattling clatter of the idling engines.
Pinch laughed “Yes, sir.!
The Major was out of earshot. Pinch wiped his long, thin nose and swallowed. Boyd watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Be careful, Boyd. The Major might make a soldier out of you yet!”
“No chance,” replied Boyd. “This sharecropper’s son didn’t leave home to march in the mud and take orders. I was born to fly.”
0555 Forest East Of Ptashkino
The sun rimmed the distant trees, and a golden light stretched across the landscape. They were on the edge of a forest with a wide cart path cut through the middle. The sunlight struggled through the leaves, casting a mottled, uncertain light on the path.
Major Banfield gave his Douglas motorcycle some gas and headed down the uneven path. The rest followed him.
“Stoy!” came a voice from the forest.
Banfield motioned for everyone to stop and then responded in Russian to the command to halt.
The bastard speaks Russian?
Boyd didn’t know what Banfield was saying. Were they White Russians or Red Russians? It all made little sense. The only thing that made sense was the gold they would pay him after the mission.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Samson flit, light on his feet for such a hefty man, into the woods and Pinch take his place moving from the sidecar onto the motorcycle.
Banfield was stalling for time.
Boyd could make out a rifle sticking out from behind a tree on the right side of the path and a sort of lean-to with canvas thrown over the top. He smelled wood smoke.
A checkpoint.
A second rifle poked out from behind a tree on the other side of the rough road.
Banfield turned in his seat and said to the group. “We are behind schedule. Let’s brass it out, lads!” He moved forward on his motorcycle toward the checkpoint.
Dix shrugged at Boyd and followed. Then Pinch. Boyd hesitated, wondering why they didn’t go around this checkpoint? He cursed and pulled in behind Pinch.
Sweat matted Boyd’s cotton shirt to his back. His body was tense, waiting for the bullets to fly. Waiting for the bullets to tear into him. He tried to keep Pinch between him and the checkpoint sentry.
But nothing happened.
He saw Banfield stop in the path ahead and bark an order to Pinch. Pinch grabbed his shotgun, hopped off his motorcycle, and moved to the left side of the path.
Boyd pulled up abreast of the others and stopped. An extinguished fire at the lean-to gave up a thin wisp of smoke. The checkpoint guard was lying on his back with his head at an impossible angle. Empty eyes staring with a startled expression.
Banfield had gotten off his motorcycle and pawed through the checkpoint site for anything official-looking. He found an old rifle, personal items, and a half-empty vodka bottle.
“Good work Private Samson,” He dumped the vodka on the ground. “Sorry, no drinking until we complete the mission.”
“Yes, sir,” said Samson as he watched the vodka splash onto the ground with a look on his face as if his dog had died.
“The other guard ran away, sir,” said Pinch.
“We are close to our destination. Stay on your toes. It will be full daylight soon,” said Banfield, twisting around on his motorcycle to see all his men.
Pinch slipped into the sidecar and Samson straddled the bike.
“Pinch, you like getting chauffeured around by Samson?” joked Dix.
“It’s all right, Captain, except these sidecars will rattle the teeth out of your head.”
Dix flicked a half-smoked cigarette away and turned to get back on his bike when Boyd addressed him with concern in his dark eyes.
“Dix, who are we fighting here? White Russians or Red Russians?” said Boyd, gesturing to the dead body.
“White? Red? Does it matter? Let’s get the Tsarina’s jewels out of the country, get a pat-on-the-back for a job well done and then I get to go back to the boring life of a soldier,” said Dix with a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He patted the canvas bag slung over his shoulder carrying the gelatin explosives. “Along the way, we’ll get to blow something up.”
Banfield snapped his pocket watch shut. “We are eight minutes behind schedule. Let’s pick it up.”
The rain stopped its sporadic spitting and sunshine poked its way through the leaves, creating a dappled light on the five men riding the snorting, brawling motorcycles across the forest floor, kicking up dirt behind them. Soon, the trees thinned out, and the group entered bright sunshine and open cultivated fields as far as the eye could see. If the wind was right, the clean scent of good earth whisked away and replaced the motorcycles’ fuel smell.
Boyd opened his jacket to catch the cooling breeze created by the motorcycle on this muggy morning.
He looked up and in the distance, a single spire rose from the flat landscape as sunlight reeled down from a sky turning light blue. The spire snatched the clear light, magnified it and reflected it back to the heavens. The clouds had disappeared.
Farmers kept their distance, working amongst the patchwork of rolling fields. They hurried in the opposite direction from the motorcycle men. They had seen enough of soldiers during their country’s current civil war and, before that, World War One.
Boyd was the last to notice the three horsemen seeming to materialize out of the ground ahead. They spread out 10 feet apart. Each carried a lance and had a bolt-action rifle slung over their shoulder.
The horseman in the middle raised his hand, signaling the group to stop.
Banfield gunned the motor spitting mud and yanked his Webley out of its hip holster as the motorcycle leaped toward the horsemen. He squeezed off two rounds that cracked like a whip in the still morning air. Boyd hesitated.
What’s that fool doing?
The others sped up toward the three horsemen, too. Pinch unleased a burst of machine gun fire from the sidecar mounted gun. Not to be left behind, Boyd throttled his motorcycle and weaved his way around a mudhole. The Webley barked twice more, followed by the rapid fire rat-tat-tat of a tommy gun.
Boyd watched the motorcycles in front spread out. He cut the wheel and his back tire slid and kicked out, going through a mudhole and taking Boyd down to a knee. He cursed and wrenched the cycle to an upright position. The back wheel spewed mud as it tried to get traction. Boyd twisted the throttle, and the front wheel popped up. The back wheel spun itself a deeper hole, shooting buckets of mud backward.
He glanced over his shoulder and cursed again. Three more horsemen coming from the opposite direction were bearing down on him at a gallop. One wielded a lance and the other two waved long curved sabers over their heads. Boyd clawed at his pump-action shotgun slung over his shoulder. He swung it around, still seated on the motorcycle, and unloaded twice toward the attacking horsemen. The shotgun bucked in his hands as he filled the space between himself and the three riders with buckshot.
Two horsemen veered away, but one soldier with a saber drove forward. He rose in his stirrups with legs straight to get leverage for a downward saber stroke at Boyd when the air erupted in the rat-tat-tat of the sidecar’s machine gun.. A spray of bullets raked the horsemen, and he sagged for a moment and then spilled over the horses rump, hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes. The horse ran off a few yards, eyes rolling, and then pulled up short before it trotted away from the scent of blood.
“What a wonderful weapon,” said Dix, holding his tommy gun. He was sitting astride his motorcycle. A wisp of smoke rising from the barrel.
Banfield roared over on his Douglas motorcycle. He anchored his feet on the ground and let the bike idle.
“Do endeavor to keep up, Boyd,” said Banfield.
He turned to Dix. “Cossacks, Captain. Once the ones that got away report, they’ll try to run us down. We need to double time it.” He fished his pocket watch out and snapped it open. “And we are behind schedule.”
He swung his cycle around and roared off toward the spire. Dix chuckled and raised his eyebrows. He followed Banfield, slipping and sliding his motorcycle through the churned earth and mud.
Boyd looked down to see his feet covered in mud up to his ankles. The engine had cut out on his motorcycle, so he rocked and pushed it forward until the wheels could get purchase on drier ground. The engine didn’t purr like a tuned instrument. It clanged to life and clattered when ridden, but it was a solid machine.
The dead Cossack lay on his back in the mud. His saber was stuck in the mud nearby. His 1910 Cossack rifle was still slung over his shoulder.
Boyd had never seen a Cossack before. This one had a black mustache and black riding boots reaching his knees. He was wearing blue pants with a red stripe down the side tucked into the boots. His boots, pants, and khaki shirt had mud smeared on them.
Boyd goosed the engine and followed the others, heading toward the spire in the distance.
0638 Orthodox Church And Stone Bridge
The group made good time over the flat terrain and soon skidded to a stop in front of the Orthodox Church.
What Boyd had thought was a spire was a cross mounted on top of a small, pale yellow dome. It rested on top of the little whitewashed stone church. The simply constructed and well-maintained white church and yellow dome were radiant in the morning sun and bright blue sky.
A short, flat stone bridge spanned a chuckling stream that swirled between rocks next to the church. The bridge was three horses wide and sat on top of two arches.
Banfield squinted at his pocket watch. “We made up some time, but are still a few minutes behind schedule. The Cossacks were a rum bit of luck. They’ll be back. Dix, you know what to do. The others follow me. From here on out, we need to move fast. They’ll be on us in a tick.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dix, with a half salute.
Banfield engaged his kickstand and strode over to the door with quick strides on his short legs. Boyd watched as he motioned with his Webley for Samsom to smash through the door.
Samson tried the doorknob. The door was unlocked. He grinned through his bushy beard and opened the door wide for Banfield. The church was empty. Dix had vanished.
Pinch blessed himself. Smiling sheepishly at Boyd, he said, “Can’t hurt.”
Samson scuttled out onto the pitched roof. He steadied himself with one hand on the dome and the other holding his tommy gun. His eyes roved over the landscape.
“Private Pinch!” shouted Banfield from inside the church. Pinch scurried inside. Boyd was curious and followed, ducking his head through the doorway. His eyes needed a few seconds to adjust to the intense darkness inside.
Pinch genuflected and hurried to the back of the church, where Banfield was gesturing.
The church’s simple, rough exterior belied the atmosphere of beauty and reverence on the inside. It awed Boyd, who stood for four heartbeats with his mouth open, gaping at the world of color and light. Shining rich yellows, blues, and reds glowed in the darkened room. Intricate religious pictures created an atmosphere Boyd had never experienced before.
Holy images crowded the walls including a painting of Jesus on the cross behind the four -foot-by-four-foot altar at the far end of the room. A tabernacle and two unlit candles rested on it.
Someone had decorated the church with a splash of multi-colored flowers. The flowers were still fresh and were for the August religious day Banfield had mentioned, thought Boyd. The church lacked pews. Boyd estimated it could hold thirty people.
A panel decorated with religious icons separated the nave from the altar. Images in a riot of colors covered the surface of the panel. It was a simple screen gloriously painted. Boyd recognized images of Christ, Mary, and St. John the Baptist.
What he thought was gold leaf, at first, he discovered, was paint.
Going to church had always annoyed Boyd.
The church he attended with his family as a boy had pews and was much larger than this one, but lacked the ornamentation of an Orthodox church. The bible thumpers in his boyhood church wouldn’t approve of the ornamentation, but Boyd like it.
Boyd walked up and stood behind the Major, watching Pinch removing religious pictures from the wall and then replacing them.
“Nothing here, Major,” said Pinch.
Banfield grunted and stepped into an alcove and shouldered a two door six-foot-high cabinet. Bottles clinked on the inside, but the cabinet itself didn’t move. He removed six bottles of red wine from the cabinet, placing the bottles on the floor and ran his fingers over the backs of the cabinet.
“Ha!” said Banfield. “Clever!” He slid the cabinet’s back panel aside, exposing a safe embedded into the stone wall, chest high. The steel safe had an old-fashioned key lock, a combination dial, and a small handle.
“Pinch, get to it,” said Banfield.
“Yes sir,” replied Pinch. His gaunt face lit up in anticipation. He swallowed and inspected the key lock. Boyd watched as he pulled out three thin pieces of metal. He inserted them with his long slim fingers into the lock and levered one thin piece of metal upwards. The lock emitted a metallic click.
“Easy. Old lock,” said Pinch. He inspected the combination dial and brushed his fingertips back and forth across the surface of the safe. Keeping his fingertips of his left hand on the safe, he gently turned the dial one click at a time.
It went on like this for ten minutes, with Pinch sighing or saying, “Aha!” The Major was growing inpatient. Boyd was fascinated as he observed a master at his craft working. The slim Pinch was a genuine artist, thought Boyd.
“Got it, sir,” said Pinch, breaking the thick silence. “Four numbers: two, eighteen, six and twenty.”
Boyd shook his head.
How did he do that? Smooth.
“Good work, Pinch, open it up,” said Banfield.
Pinch spun the dial this way and that and grabbed the handle. He looked at the Major.
Banfield nodded his head. Pinch smiled and turned the handle to the sound of metal grinding on metal.
A loud click and a foot-long spring-loaded iron arrow sprang from the booby-trapped safe and impaled Pinch through the center of his chest. Pinch’s body sagged without a sound. The arrow point stuck out of Pinch’s back and held the master safe cracker suspended in an upright position.
Boyd and Banfield stood frozen in shock.
Banfield exhaled audibly. Boyd couldn’t tear his eyes from Pinch’s face with the man’s eyes round and bugging out of his head. Banfield reached over and shut Pinch’s eyes. He peered into the safe for a second before reaching in and grabbing a padlocked black metal box fifteen inches by ten inches in size.
Banfield looked down at Pinch with the iron arrow splitting his chest and tucked the metal box under his arm. “Move out, Boyd.”
& & &
Boyd was happy to get out of the tight alcove and leave the sickly, sweet coopery smell of blood. Outside, he breathed in and wiped the picture of Pinch hovering in the air with an iron arrow stuck in his chest from his mind.
Did Banfield know the safe was booby-trapped?
A whistle from above caused Boyd and the Major to look up, shading their eyes with one hand. Samson held up ten fingers and pointed east. He slid down the sun-bleached wooden roof and grabbed hold of the edge before swing down to the ground. He adjusted his tommy gun on its sling.
“Horsemen. A mile out. Coming this way,” said Sansom.
“Pinch didn’t make it. He’s in there. We move out.”
Without a word, Samson slipped through the open church door.
“Saying his goodbye, no doubt,” said Banfield. He pulled out his watch. “Damn. Eighteen minutes behind schedule. Dix should have the bridge and church wired by now.”
“You’re going to blow up the church?”
“Orders,” said Banfield, scanning the horizon to the east. “I don’t like it either, but soldiers follow orders.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” replied Boyd.
Banfield tied the box to the back of his Douglas motorcycle.
“Private Samson, get out here,” yelled Banfield. “Look,” He added and pointed east to a black blob on the horizon. The pinpricks separated from an amorphous blob into ten individual riders.
“Oh, Jesus,” said Boyd. He leaped onto his motorcycle and tried to kick-start.
“Don’t flood the engine, Boyd. Get over the bridge. Samson and I will meet you and Dix there.”
The engine sputtered to life. Boyd throttled it so hard he almost flew off the back as the motorcycle took off like a rocket.
He slowed down over the uneven surface of the bridge and pulled up to a small stand of young oak trees on the other side. Dix had wires running along the ground from the church and bridge to the detonation plunger, a small wooden box with a “T” handle in the top. He was smoking a cigarette.
“Pinch bought it,” said Boyd, pulling up alongside Dix.
“Damn that all to hell,” replied Dix in a flat tone. He blew out a long stream of smoke that vanished in the air. “If we don’t move along, we are all going to get it.” He narrowed his eyes and pointed with his chin.
The Cossacks galloped toward the little whitewashed stone church. They were close enough so Boyd could make out their uniforms and see if they had a lance or saber.
“Come’on Boyd. Let’s give them some covering fire,” said Dix, flicking his cigarette away, hopping on his motorcycle and starting it in one smooth motion.
Boyd shook his head. “I’m here to fly. Not to fight Cossacks.”
“Banfield has the map and the jewels. Even if you don’t care about the jewels, we need Banfield and his map to get out of here.” He slung his tommy gun over his shoulder and headed across the bridge. Boyd cursed, unslung his pump-action shotgun, and held it in one hand as he followed Dix.
Boyd steered his bike toward Banfield, who was yelling toward the church as the Cossacks rushed at him. Samson appeared at the door carrying three bottles of wine. His tommy gun was slung on his back. He fumbled with the bottles, reaching for his machine gun. Dix and Banfield were laying down a stream of bullets into the oncoming Cossacks. Dix’s tommy gun vibrated in his hand as he held it waist high and moved it side-to-side.
A lance-wielding Cossack made it through the hail of tommy gun fire, lowered his lance and skewered Samson, pinning him to the door of the church. Samson roared a challenge and grabbed the lance still impaled in his body with both hands and levered the rider off the horse. Samson tottered for a moment and then slumped over, dead.
Two saber waving Cossacks came riding on either side of Boyd, striding on lathered horses neck-and-neck with the motorcycle. Boyd gunned the engine and flipped the lever on a nitrous oxide tube attached to his engine. The bike exploded forward when the nitrous oxide hit the carburetor, leaving the Cossacks behind.
The nitrous oxide played itself out in ten seconds and Boyd had propelled himself into the middle of the battle. Cursing his stupidity, Boyd came to a stop and planted his feet on the ground before firing his 12-gauge shotgun toward a Cossack on a rearing horse. The sharp, staccato sound of the tommy guns churned all around him. Shouting Cossacks and snorting horses boiled in front of the church, kicking up a choking dust that lingered in the humid air.
Suddenly, a Cossack high on his horse loomed over Boyd and was close enough so Boyd could see his yellow, chipped teeth as he snarled. Boyd elevated his sawed-off shotgun and pulled the trigger.
The buckshot slammed into the Cossack like a hammer, leaving behind a red mist where a moment before was a man. The recoil jerked the barrel up. A whiff of gunpowder filled his nostrils. He caught a glimpse on the other side of his motorcycle of a wild-eyed, lunging horse and ducked in time to avoid a saber strike that clanked off the back of the motorcycle. Boyd pointed his shotgun across his body to that side of the bike and let loose with more buck shot.
Boyd dropped the shotgun and tripped the other nitrous oxide tube. He streaked across the bridge, gripping the handlebars and fighting to stay upright as the motorcycle raced over the uneven bridge surface. Banfield and Dix were close behind him.
A handful of Cossacks had dismounted at the church and peppered the three motorcyclists with rifle fire.
“Major, I’m going to blow this,” yelled Dix, plunger in hand.
“Right-O, Captain!”
Boyd followed the Major as they roared away from the bridge. A few heartbeats later, a roaring screech rent the air searing Boyd’s ear drums. Boyd fought the blast concussion for control of his motorcycle as dirt and stones pelted him. Banfield and Boyd slid to a halt and twisted in their seats to look back. All Boyd could see was an ever-widening brown cloud of dust engulfing the church and the bridge.
“Hold up, Boyd. I can’t see Dix,” shouted Banfield. As the dust settled, Boyd expected to
see Dix racing toward them on his motorcycle. Instead, it was eerily quiet. The back wall of the church had tumbled to the ground. A crack scribed a vertical jagged line in the dome.
The bridge’s stone arches survived intact, but the road over the bridge was littered with gaping holes, making it unusable. Shattered timber and rocks collapsed into the stream, clogging it and turning the water chocolate brown.
Four Cossacks on horseback dismounted and started an energetic but inaccurate rifle fire from across the river at the two stopped motorcyclists.
“I can’t see any sign of Dix. It’s you and me, Boyd, to bring this mission home,” said Banfield, staring at the destruction. “So unnecessary. Six miles to the plane. It’s at little village next to Marfovskoe Lake.”
Banfield pulled out his gold pocket watch and then shoved it back into his pocket.
“Oh, the hell with it. Time to get out of here,” said Banfield. He slammed a new clip into his tommy gun, throttled up his motorcycle and peeled away toward the west.
Boyd followed, leaving the bodies of Dix, Samson, and Pinch buried in the rubble.
0702 West To Marfovka
They raced across dozens of farmers’ fields. Crusted mud and dirt covered the snarling, straining motorcycles. Boyd hoped Banfield knew where they were going.
We must be low on fuel.
Farmers in their fields stopped what they were doing and watched the motorcycles speed by and then went back to working in the fields.
Suddenly, more Cossacks materialized ahead and bore down on the motorcyclists. Their sabers flashed, reflecting the sunlight.
The others radioed ahead. Cossacks in front and behind.
Boyd pulled his Mauser pistol out of its holster as he gripped the handlebar of the jostling bike with his left hand. He spied Banfield race toward the Cossacks and trip the lever, releasing nitrous oxide into the engine. His motorcycle leaped forward between the two horsemen.
The action was so fast the Cossacks didn’t have time to react. Banfield emptied two saddles with two rounds from his big, black Webley revolver. A horseman bolted toward Boyd and ran up alongside him, slashing right and left with his saber clanging off the motorcycle. Boyd squeezed the brakes hard to get behind the saber and plugged the Cossack with three rounds in the back. Feeling the pistol buck each time. He gave his Douglas motorcycle gas and thundered past the Cossack slumped over the horse’s mane.
0717 Marfovskoe Lake
Marfovskoe Lake came into view, shimmering in the sunlight. A smattering of shacks crowded the shore near three docks stretching out into the water. One dock had a float plane tethered to it. The bi-plane bobbed on the surface of the water and tugged at the line, securing it to the dock.
Banfield guided his bike through the village and pulled up at the dock.
Boyd identified the plane as a modified Nieuport with pontoon floats instead of landing wheels and a second seat. He could smell the dampness in the air.
“Major, that’s a two-seater. How would they know beforehand that only two of us would make it this far and fly out of here? Where’s the pilot that flew it here?”
“You weren’t supposed to make it,” said a familiar voice from behind a shack near the dock. Dix stepped around the corner of the shack with a shiny Colt revolver in his hand. A tommy gun was slung over his shoulder.
“You’re alive!” said Banfield.
“Drop your weapons.” His eyes got hard. Banfield and Boyd dropped their pistols.
“What’s this all about, Captain? How did you get here before us?” said Banfield. Boyd kept his mouth shut.
“Shut-up Banfield and throw the box on the ground.” Dix watched Banfield untie the metal box and placed it on the ground.
Two bullets from Dix’s pistol smashed the lock and echoed across the lake. Dix motioned for Banfield to open the box.
“Look at the Tsarina’s jewels, Banfield.”
“Nothing but a common criminal,” grumbled Banfield. He flipped open the top and gasped. He picked up one of the four small canvas sacks in the box. Stones tumbled out of the sack onto the ground.
Boyd pursed his lips. Banfield’s face registered wide-eyed surprise.
“Our government already secured the jewels months ago. This little foray you led, Banfield, was a ruse to cover up the British government’s removal of the Tsarina’s jewels. The explosion at the church was supposed to kill everyone but me. Then I’d fly out of here and ditch the plane. The final report will state that a renegade British major, two escaped convicts, and an American mercenary pilot stole the jewels. They, and the jewels, were lost somewhere over the Black Sea. Investigators have already drafted reports on who the culprits were, their motives, and where the plane came from, etc.”
Scapegoats.
“I can’t believe King George would be party to this type of affair,” said Banfield.
“How do you think people become kings? British Army Intelligence makes their own rules. Men like me make kings. Men like you serve them.” Turning to address Boyd, he added, “I liked you Boyd, and your self-centered approach to life. Sorry. No witnesses.”
While Dix spoke, Banfield moved the sling attached to his tommy gun closer to the edge of his shoulder. A split second later, Banfield swung the tommy gun, slamming it into Dix and, at the same moment, Dix fired a bullet into Banfield’s stomach.
“Run Boyd!” gasped Banfield, throwing himself at Dix.
Boyd sprinted between two shacks and heard a second shot behind him.
Banfield was dead.
The villagers were hiding. Boyd tried two doors and found that both were locked.
He ran down the haphazard lanes between the shacks. He stopped and pulled out a long, thin needle-like dagger from his boot and hoisted himself onto the roof of a shack and laid flat.
Dix moved by on the balls of his feet with a tommy gun. He was smoking a cigarette.
Desperation sparked courage, and Boyd leaped from the roof. The scuff of his shoes alerted Dix, who turned and got off a burst, wide of the mark, before impact.
Dix grunted when Boyd slammed into him. Boyd slashed at Dix with the knife. The tommy gun spilled out of Dix’s hands. Dix grabbed Boyd’s knife hand and launched a straight right jab from the shoulder into Boyd’s face that staggered him. Dix followed with a kick at Boyd’s groin. Boyd eluded the kick and countered with a left hook to the ear. The knife fell to the ground and Dix bull-rushed forward, throwing both hands. Boyd dived at his feet, tackling him and slamming Dix to the ground. Dix got an arm around Boyd’s neck and started choking. A roar filled his ears, and he could feel his face getting red. He bit down hard on Dix’s forearm. Dix cursed and relaxed his grip.
Boyd spun around, slamming his full body weight into Dix, knocking him to the ground. He jumped on Dix’s chest and smashed two elbow strikes into his head, drawing blood each time. Stunned, Dix tried to fight back, clawing for Boyd’s eyes. Boyd rolled off Dix and snatched up his knife from the ground and, in the same movement, he rolled back and plunged the dagger into Dix’s chest. The dagger ripped through Dix’s shirt. Boyd heard the sucking sound of a chest wound. He rolled away from Dix in the mud, his lungs heaving.
Dix flailed feebly at the knife stuck in his chest. Boyd scrambled to his feet and pounced on the Mauser pistol. He squeezed off two rounds into Dix. Dix sighed once and was still.
Boyd spit blood out of his dry mouth. A crust of caked mud covered his leather jacket. He ripped his knife out of Dix’s chest and cleaned it off on Dix’s jacket before sliding it back into his boot.
There wasn’t much blood. Dix looked asleep by the lake. Boyd pulled out Dix’s wallet, thick with British pound sterling notes. Boyd estimated at least a thousand pounds.
British Army Intelligence pays well.
Boyd grabbed the tommy gun and walked over to Banfield’s body and squatted. He reached into Banfield’s pants pocket and pulled out the gold pocket watch.
“I think we are on schedule,” said Boyd out loud.
He stuffed the watch and Banfield’s wallet into the coat pocket with Dix’s wallet. He stood up. His back ached and his clothes under the leather jacket were soaked with sweat.
As Boyd turned to head to the floatplane, a bullet whizzed over his head, followed by a sharp retort of a rifle. Galloping straight for him were more Cossacks.
How many damn Cossacks are there?
Boyd dashed across the roughhewn dock and untethered the plane. Bullets struck the wooden dock with a dull heavy thud. A body was floating face down in the water by the plane. Boyd had the flickering thought the body was the pilot that flew the plane here.
No witnesses.
He was about to vault into the open cockpit when he glimpsed something attached to the seat.
Explosives. Gelatin.
“Rigged to create an electrical current when I sat down in the seat. Dix, you bastard,” mumbled Boyd.
Three more bullets whistled overhead, sounding like big, angry wasps. Boyd glanced back at the hard-charging Cossacks. He could hear them yelling.
The bomb had two wires — red and black. Boyd gripped the red wire between thumb and forefinger.
Was Dix telling me the truth about the red wire?
The rifle fire was growing in intensity.
He swallowed and plucked the red wire out of the bomb. His heart was in his mouth. Nothing happened, so he removed the wire holding the booby trap to the seat and threw it in the water.
He slid into the pilot seat, noted the wind direction, and cranked the engine. The engine spit once before the single propeller started spinning. Boyd throttled up and taxied away from the dock as the Cossacks galloped through the village. A few swung down off their horses, kneeled, and fired from the shoreline.
Bullets smashed into the wooden plane or ripped through its fabric covering. Boyd emptied the tommy guns clip at the Cossacks as the plane picked up speed.
At first, the unmarked floatplane moved sluggishly, with the floats on either side of the plane plowing through the water. Then the plane danced over the surface of the water as it accelerated. Boyd adjusted the pitch to minimize drag and maximize lift.
Cossacks splashed into the water up to their horses’ haunches and shot at Boyd from horseback. Bullets zipped past the floatplane. One Cossack raced his horse parallel to the plane along the shoreline, squeezing off round after round. The roar of the plane, whining bullets, and water slapping against the pontoon, created a confused chaos of sound and motion. Then the floatplane hesitated a second and surged into the brilliant morning sky.
0751 South to the Black Sea
Boyd felt that warm, comforting feeling in his stomach whenever he left the earth behind in a plane, overcoming gravity. Below, the Cossacks milled about on the lake shore. Nothing looked dangerous from a thousand feet in the air. The only noise was the drone of the engine and the whistling wind. Boyd smiled.
It was good to be in the air.
That’s where the best pilot in the world ought to be! In the air! Fly Jackie Boyd fly!
Boyd headed the bi-plane south, figuring on turning east when he hit the Black Sea shoreline. Fully fueled, he’d have a 250-300 mile range. Then he’d dig up his gold and get the hell out of this Russian Civil War mess.
Maybe China? Warlords there need pilots. Hell. There’s always a need for the best damn pilot in the world.
Fly Jackie Boyd fly!
* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright R. K. Olson 2024
