Kalin didn’t have to wait long. His KGB handler and mentor came to him and told him to get ready, as he would be leaving the school for further preparation for his upcoming assignment. Making friends with other students was not encouraged, but Kalin had a few people he liked to drink beer with and talk about the world outside the school. One of his friends was a young KGB officer who taught the course on terrorism. Over a beer in the canteen, Yuri Kolenko lectured him to pay more attention to the theory of terrorism.

“You will soon be getting your assignment somewhere in America, and you need to impress your handlers with your knowledge of terrorist tactics and theory. Now I’m going to give you something to impress them. Memorize as much as you can.”

He then passed Kalin a paper he had written. Yuri added, “I’m going to tell you something this school never passes on. The use of aliases over a long period of time can have an effect on your thinking and behavior. All identity changes require a change in behavior. To be effective you must act out and live each role. To cope with that you must devise an anchor for who you are. I always chose an alias starting with the English letter ‘H.’ My favorite is Harris. I’ve done my best work under that name. As long as there isn’t any clear security problem, I’ll use the name Harris. That simple thing is my anchor to maintain who I really am behind the façade of an alias and cover story. I trust you not to ever mention what I’ve just told you.”

Back in his cubicle room, Kalin propped his feet up and read Yuri’s notes.

“The goal of terrorism is to create in the Target State an atmosphere of chaos that will cause the State’s reaction to result in an even higher level of chaos. The Target State will lose its internal cohesiveness and will gradually move toward vulnerability to either external military action or political attacks from within. Carefully managed terrorism could successfully destroy an enemy, an enemy that was previously thought to be invincible. It is not as most terrorists and their supporters think that the individual terrorist acts have to be sensational in order to be successful. In fact, many sensational terrorist operations end up making the target state’s resolve stronger and its internal security procedures more effective. Average citizens expect that important people and large landmark structures are the targets of terrorists from time to time. What is far more effective is to have people from all classes lose confidence in the ability of the government to protect their lives and property. The western media will act as the carrier of this political disease and focus on the failure of the security services to protect people from terrorists.

“In the past, terrorism has been limited to attacks against targets with high political impacts. After a time the terrorist incident will disappear from the front page only to reappear if someone is caught and put on trial. It is too hard for terrorists to continually hit high-profile targets. The detailed planning and logistical effort required to hit high-impact targets cannot be sustained. If, however, the new terrorists concentrate on soft or unprotected targets, they can continue a drum beat of assassinations and sabotage. Then local governments are unable to cope and begin to break down. The media demands action. Citizens lose confidence and no longer trust the authorities to protect them. Proving once again that the greatest freedom is freedom from fear.

“It is in the actions taken by States to protect themselves from terrorism that the real payoff for terrorism occurs. As States put into effect more and more protective measures, the very nature of democracies like the United States begin to change from a government that emphasized individual freedom and initiative to one that seeks to control and track its citizens with a growing security apparatus. A security apparatus that can easily, if unchecked, form the core of an emerging police state that will eventually enrage the populace.

“Small forces should not attack high-impact targets that by their very nature will be protected. The terrorist leader of today must count upon the media to frighten the nation much in the way media focus on a serial killer can paralyze a local area. Timing and selection of targets must be carefully managed to develop and maintain momentum.”

All of Barry Kelly’s novels are available in print and digital formats from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or your local bookstore. Visit www.factsandfictions.com for more by the author.

The years passed and Peter blossomed. He was first in his class and a star soccer player. He grew up with his grandmother interchanging languages. She knew English, French, and Polish as well as Russian and a few Siberian dialects. Peter’s English had a natural American accent.

By the time he was in his tenth year of education in the Russian system he was known for his ability to speak and read several languages. Peter had the kind of a mind that could remember great amounts of detail and recall it when he needed it. Following his grandmother’s guidance, he focused on language courses and worked very hard in each of them.

With his language skills and being the son of two Leningrad war heroes, it was natural for the KGB to recognize his potential and put him in their special schools that trained spies to infiltrate the West after several years of training.

Before his Nana died, she made him promise to escape from the Soviet Union at the first opportunity and establish their bloodline in a free country. She told him that their true family name was that of her husband, his grandfather, the American soldier who had come from America to fight against the Communists. His name was John Brandon. She left nothing out and finished by saying his grandfather dreamed about taking them all back to America. Peter, his grandson, now had to make that dream real. She wanted the bloodline of her beloved warrior husband to be taken back to America to defend freedom, a freedom that would never come to Russia. From that revelation on, Peter thought about nothing but escaping from the deadly, boring rule of the Communist Party.

The KGB school for spies, or intelligence operatives as the students preferred, required constant focus. Failing was not an option. This was the path to the world Peter now dreamed of since he sat with his grandmother and listened to her stories of the family’s true history.

Ray, Peter’s English language instructor, was from Pittsburgh and would never be able to leave Russia. Ray was entrapped in Moscow ten years ago. He now had a Russian wife and family who lived in a special compound near the school. The KGB kept all their language instructors from enemy nations under tight control. They had seen too many undercover KGB officers to ever be allowed to leave Russia. They were lucky to get permission to visit Moscow or Leningrad.

Russian was never heard or seen in Peter’s part of the training facility. It was set up like a University with specialty training in different buildings. No one used their true names and cameras were not allowed other than in the areas for photography training. The restaurants, shops, exercise and medical facilities, entertainment, and even barbershops were all designed after their western counterparts.

Practical training in living under different identities was constant. Peter was now studying under the name Ivan Kalin. He disliked the name Ivan and preferred to be called Kalin. Peter was a whiz at languages and a straight ‘A’ student. He was now at home in the total immersion training in American English and culture. He knew he would soon be getting an assignment.

All of Barry Kelly’s novels are available in print and digital formats from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or your local bookstore. Visit www.factsandfictions.com for more by the author.

Six months later, she made her way to the address of Peter’s grandmother. He had made her memorize the address and promise to go there if anything happened to him. It was almost dusk when Anna knocked on the weathered door of her destination.

Katrina opened the door and saw the young woman carrying a baby. Before she could say anything, the woman said, “I’m Anna and this is your grandson, Peter.” Katrina pulled Anna inside and tears ran down her cheeks as she hugged both of them. Anna handed her grandson to her. It had been a long time since Katrina had felt such happiness.

Anna and Katrina talked and drank weak tea until dawn and Peter wanted fed. For nearly a week, Katrina’s small house was alive with activity. Even at six months Katrina could see her son in the young infant’s face and actions. As the weeks passed, Katrina noticed her daughter-in-law looking sad when Katrina happily talked about future plans. “Anna, what’s wrong? You look so unhappy.”

“The war is not over and I must rejoin my old unit. I’m planning on leaving the day after tomorrow. You must take care of Peter. I’ll be back as soon as I can. For the first time since he was born, I feel he is safe.”

Katrina never saw Anna again. She was killed in the final assault on Berlin.

All of Barry Kelly’s novels are available in print and digital formats from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or your local bookstore. Visit www.factsandfictions.com for more by the author.

Katrina never forgot the emptiness she felt as she left the terminal that last Sunday all those years ago and all hope of ever seeing her husband again. She was quite old now but she still went for her daily walk along the streets of Leningrad. Katrina had moved from Irkutsk to Leningrad in 1939 with her two children, Maya, when she was just turning 19 and Peter 17. Those early years had been hard even though she had a good position as an interpreter-translator. Life was better now.

Both children had received good educations. Maya was the better scholar of the two. She had been working on her graduate degree in Russian languages and the history of the Revolution at the University when she fell in love with a young math professor. Katrina liked the young man and gave her blessings. Maya and Mikael Orlov were married shortly before Hitler’s panzers roared across the German and Polish borders. Neither of them survived the siege of Leningrad.

Katrina’s son, Peter, volunteered for service and was trained as sniper. He had always excelled in anything that required physical skill and coordination. While still in training he met Anna, a young Russian woman, who was the best shot in their sniper group. Peter sent Katrina a photo of the both of them in uniform before the Nazi siege cut off Leningrad from the world.

When they were assigned to the Stalingrad front, Anna knew she was pregnant but told no one. She and Peter were a team and she was not going to abandon him. Soon they were recognized as the best sniper team on the Stalingrad front. When the two of them singlehandedly stopped an entire German company from advancing, they were given the highest medals for bravery and assigned to train other snipers in the tactics they had developed. It was more coaching than training, as they never left the front area and were constantly engaged in fighting for every foot of Russian soil.

In 1943 the tide had turned on the Stalingrad front. The German supply lines were cut by the Red Army and the German troops fighting in Stalingrad were surrounded with no way out. Peter was killed in the last of the German artillery barrages. Anna helped bury him and then made her way east to get away from the fighting. She knew her baby would be coming soon and she had to find a safe place.

Their sergeant told her to seek a place to have her baby and marked her as killed in action. Anna left her uniform and rifle in the ruins of Stalingrad but kept her sidearm and medals. She scavenged a dress, though it was two sizes too big for her, and a full-length coat. Her condition was obvious and she used it to get a ride with a female truck driver who took her to the nearest hospital and helped her get admitted. She gave birth to a son late the next day. Anna paid the midwife to give them a room until she could gather her strength and be sure the baby could travel.

All of Barry Kelly’s novels are available in print and digital formats from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or your local bookstore. Visit www.factsandfictions.com for more by the author.

Katrina could hardly wait. It was the first Sunday she and Maya were going to the central train station to meet Yevgeny. She knew if it were possible Yevgeny would be there at noon today. She and Maya would be in the canteen drinking tea. Katrina hadn’t told Maya they were going to meet her daddy. She didn’t even want to look as if she were waiting for someone. She fit in well. There were many mothers raising children without a father. The war and party campaigns to prune away all vestiges of dissent had made eligible young men scarce.

Katrina waited an hour, sipping her tea while chatting with Maya, who was acting like a little lady enjoying her tea and cookie. She had settled well into a private school that Katrina could afford now that she had a job interpreting for the Irkutsk Department of the Trans Siberian Railroad. She could speak Russian, some Siberian dialects, English, French, and Polish, at least well enough to handle most situations. Maya was proficient in English, French, and Russian. At 1:00 PM Katrina paid her bill and left.

For the next month she took her tea every Sunday and Wednesday at noon. Then, afraid she was becoming a local story by her regular tea schedule, she only went to the railroad station on Sundays. By this time it was obvious to all she was carrying a baby. In her heart Katrina knew something had happened to Yevgeny. He was never going to show. Her Johnny Brandon. Katrina always thought of him as Johnny, the young American they had pulled out of the snow after the Red Army ambushed the train his platoon was guarding. She knew she was carrying his son and that gave her great comfort. She would bring another Brandon into her life. Maybe someday he or his offspring would get back to America. Katrina said a silent prayer for her husband, put her cup down, and merged into a crowd of tired, arriving passengers moving slowly toward the exit.

All of Barry Kelly’s novels are available in print and digital formats from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or your local bookstore. Visit www.factsandfictions.com for more by the author.

He crawled into the small offshoot of the tunnel that was just big enough for one man to stretch out and obviously had been used before. Inside the small opening was a carefully placed boulder that could be rolled to hide the opening. He had plenty of water, a safe place to rest, and now enough food for a week. Using all the strength in his good leg, he pushed the boulder into place, totally blocking the small entry. He noticed the boulder rolled easily after he got it started. If this damn hole in me will heal, I have a chance to get back to Katrina.

Yevgeny never heard any sounds from the extensive search a dozen men made of the chamber. He was awake on and off for the first two days and then, with a growing fever, he lost consciousness. The next day he awoke with no awareness that he had been out for another day. He drank deeply of his water supply and later ate some dried smoked meat. He was very weak and his shirt was sticking to his skin over the wounds. He heard no sounds. After resting, he tried to move the boulder blocking off his hidden space. No matter how hard he pushed and pulled at the boulder, it did not move.

He rested again and managed to move the boulder a few inches by using his rifle barrel as a lever. He was drenched with sweat and fell asleep again. Waking hours later, he drank more water and ate again. After a while he felt stronger. His shirt pulled away from his wounds and he could feel that the bleeding had stopped. Inserting the rifle barrel into the small opening he had made earlier, he pulled as hard as he could and the boulder moved enough for him to ease out into the side tunnel that led back to the main cavern.

Moving slowly and using the rifle as a cane, he made his way to the cavern entrance in the flickering light of a candle stub. It must be night. There is no light coming through the entrance. Yevgeny could see the blood spots on the floor but no bodies. They came here and searched for me.

Walking up to entrance tunnel, he squatted and put the candle inside the tunnel. The tunnel was filled with broken rocks.

They must have blown the entrance. God knows how many tons of rock collapsed into the entrance tunnel. More than I’ll ever move as weak as I am and without any tools. Unless I can find another way out of here, I’m trapped. I may never be found in this cave. Johnny Brandon from St. Cloud, Minnesota, you are in a very strange crypt. I’ll rest and then try to find another way out. Don’t panic. At least no one can now make me tell them about Katrina and Maya.

All of Barry Kelly’s novels are available in print in digital formats from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or your local bookstore. Visit www.factsandfictions.com for more by the author.

Yevgeny waited until several hours after dark before slowly dragging the body out through the cavern entrance and part way along the ledge. It was tempting to keep the man’s rifle and ammo but that would have removed the mystery. He smelled smoke as soon as he was through the tunnel entrance. There was a dying fire 100 meters up from the canyon face, just where the canyon narrowed. A strong wind muffled the sounds he made in dropping the body head first down the wall. He heard the thump when the body hit the canyon floor. He watched. No sign of men moving. He sat on the ledge until the darkness began to fade and crawled back through the tunnel. It was good to be out in the fresh air.

Shortly after dawn, Yevgeny heard loud voices and men shouting. He crept to the entrance so he could hear some of the conversation. He could make out the sergeant’s voice.

“Yes, I know it looks like Alexandrov fell, but he didn’t. That bastard is here. I can feel him. Alexandrov didn’t fall headfirst off the ledge. Yes, I know he has all of his equipment and even his weapon. But where did he disappear to? He was talking to us and then silence for almost ten hours then he shows up here below the ledge dead. How do you dummies explain that?

“Okay. You can’t. I want someone to go up there and find out what happened. What, no volunteers? Okay, you’ll all draw straws. The short straw goes up on the ledge. But first, four of you go cut two 20-foot trees and some cross branches so we can make a ladder. The first 20 feet of the climb looks to be the hardest. Be back here in two hours. Then I’ll decide who volunteers.”

Yevgeny heard noises outside the cavern but couldn’t make out what was happening. He was sure someone was climbing the wall but the sounds didn’t fit in. There was no effort to be quiet. The noise stopped and he crawled to the entrance. There were no voices. The scraping sounds had stopped.

On the floor of the canyon 25 meters from the end wall, the sergeant was briefing his men. “Here is the plan. Our best climber, that would be you, Vasily, will climb the wall carrying our rope. Once you are on the ledge, Georgi and Ivan will climb the ladder one at a time. When they get to the top of the ladder, Vasily will lower the rope and help you join him on the ledge.

“There must be a cave, a hiding place or maybe even a way out of the canyon. People lived here in very ancient times. Who knows what could be here or what Alexandrov saw. This time there will be no periods of silence. If he is there, he knows we are here. No need to try tricks. Just kill him. He will not be captured. Shoot on sight. Now go get him. Remember Alexandrov.”

Using most of his homemade candles, Yevgeny went deeper into the cavern. He explored three short side tunnels that narrowed until they were impassable. He found three skulls in one of the tunnels and put one in his pack. There was no question people had lived here in primitive times. The smoke from his candle drifted away from him, down the main part of the cavern. He sensed the cavern continued on for some distance but with his light supply limited, he had to start back. He doubted his ability to make his way back in total darkness.

Yevgeny’s timing wasn’t perfect. Fortunately, he had put out his candle as soon as he could see a glimmer of light from the entrance tunnel. Unfortunately, he could see three men silhouetted in the dim light by the entranceway. They couldn’t see him with the darkness of the cavern cloaking his movements. He brought the .30-40 Krag to his shoulder and shot the man who was closest to the entrance tunnel. The second man was down before he could fire a shot. The third had dropped to the floor at the sound of the first shot and returned fire at the flash of Yevgeny’s second shot. His snap shot hit Yevgeny in his side just above his hip. He recovered, moved to his right, and fired the remaining three rounds in his magazine.

One of Yevgeny’s shots ricocheted off the stone floor just inches from Georgi’s head and hit him in the side of the neck, rupturing the carotid artery.

I’m in serious trouble, Yevgeny thought, dropping his rifle. This wound may not be fatal but it is very dangerous. I’ve seen abdominal wounds and recovery is rare, even in the field hospitals. I need to check the downed men. I don’t want to get shot again. My ammunition is almost gone, food for only two more meager meals. He cut a piece of soft leather from his shirt and forced it in the wound. There was not a lot of external bleeding.

Yevgeny cautiously approached his hunters. He found no pulse, but he did find enough food for a few more days and weapons with plenty of ammunition. Exploring his wound, he discovered the bullet went through and through, but he was bleeding more from the exit wound. He cut another piece of soft leather and strapped it over the wound. He took things he could use for bandages from the bodies. Each man was also carrying a few candle stubs.

Before moving deeper into the cavern, Yevgeny placed the skull in his pack in the center of the entrance tunnel. He was feeling weaker and struggled to get back to one of the side tunnels where he had found a perfect hiding place. He checked constantly to make sure he wasn’t leaving a blood trail. Yevgeny knew the sergeant would never give up. More men would appear tomorrow or within a week, depending on how many men were close.

All of Barry Kelly’s novels are available in print in digital formats from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or your local bookstore. Visit www.factsandfictions.com for more by the author.

He hoped when the searchers found his cave, they would take time searching it and deciding what to do. They would not be able to tell if he was outside the canyon or inside. They would have to cover both possibilities. Probably post two men at the entranceway, as they would most likely decide he was outside the canyon. They couldn’t know the canyon was a blind canyon. One man would either be sent to explore the canyon or to go for more men.

The furs he left behind would tell them he had moved there from two weeks’ travel to the northeast. If the smart sergeant put the story together, he would know he was on the trail of a skilled killer and decide to move slowly and send for more men. Yevgeny hoped so, and that was the best he could hope for. But now as he looked up at the nearly sheer wall, he knew his biggest challenge was to get out of the dead-end canyon.

The canyon wall extended for at least 50 meters. He examined one end of the wall and then ran to see the other end. He saw a chance of climbing the wall where it joined the sidewall at a slightly obtuse angle. Fifty feet up he saw a narrow ledge where he could rest and maybe even hide. Here and there on this corner of the canyon wall stunted, wind-bent trees had found purchase in the poor, loose soil.

Yevgeny adjusted his pack, wiped out any tracks he made leading up to the climbing point, jammed his boot into a small crevice, and started up the wall. He had some rock climbing experience and found handholds, some risky, but he had no choice. He knew he had to reach the ledge before anyone came.

Looking back down the cliff to the canyon floor, Yevgeny could see the eroded handholds he used had been cut there by someone else, probably the ones who lived in the cave settlement. Looking up the cliff face he saw without rock climbing equipment he could go no further. The narrow ledge led behind the steep wall blocking the canyon to a small concealed opening. He had to crawl, pushing his pack ahead of him to get through the opening. After crawling several more feet, he found he could stand. He was in a large, gloomy cavern. There was enough light coming through the crawl space for him to make out the outline of the cavern. It didn’t look as if the cavern went anywhere but it was large enough to hold many people.

Yevgeny moved to the back wall and built a small fire from the makings in his pack. In the light from the small fire, he saw primitive art as high as 15 feet up the wall. Yevgeny stayed in the cavern for two days. On the second day, he heard voices and crawled to the mouth of the cave. Yevgeny heard four distinct voices and it sounded as if more men were walking along the base of the cliff.

“Only a bird could get out of this canyon,” Yevgeny heard one man say.

The sergeant said, “Don’t underestimate this man. He may have rigged a rope to help him escape from here. Did we find any tracks near the entrance or in the area of the entrance in the light dusting snow we got last night? No! He is either still in this canyon or he got out just before we arrived. Saw us and took off, leaving the stuff in the cave behind. No man would have left those beautiful fox furs without a very good reason. So keep looking. I think he is in this canyon laughing at us.”

The sergeant is a wise hunter, Yevgeny thought. If I killed him, the others wouldn’t know what to do next. If anyone climbs up here, they will find this cave. Still, maybe waiting is best. I have enough food to get by for another few days. There’s enough water in the trickle in the back of the cave to keep several people alive. This cavern is immense. I need to explore it all. Maybe there’s another way out or at least a place to hide if they climb up to the ledge and find the entrance.

Yevgeny sat down near his small fire. As he looked back up at the cavern walls, he noticed the smoke from his small fire drifted up and toward the back of the cavern. There has to be at least an opening to the outside somewhere. As he was making a torch out of a piece of clothing dipped in the small can of cooking fat he always carried, he heard shouts and noise outside. Hurrying to the entrance, he heard the sounds of something moving along the narrow ledge. The light coming in the entrance dimmed and he could see a moving shadow from the bit of sunlight entering the tunnel at this time of day.

Yevgeny stood to the right side of the entrance. When a man’s head appeared he struck him on the back of his neck with the butt of his rifle. The man groaned and stretched out face down. Minutes later, voices called “Alexandrov” repeatedly, followed by the sergeant demanding he answer. If they don’t hear anything and Alexandrov doesn’t return, the sergeant may not find any more volunteers. Yevgeny checked the down man’s pulse. He was dead. Tonight I’ll drop him off the ledge to add more problems for the sergeant. After the 50-foot fall it may be difficult to tell what killed him. They won’t know for sure that I’m up here. I can outwait them. They won’t stay for more than a week, probably be gone in three days. That sergeant may set up a guard at the entrance. I’ll worry about that later.

All of Barry Kelly’s novels are available in print in digital formats from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or your local bookstore. Visit www.factsandfictions.com for more by the author.

The next week, Yevgeny stayed within the walls of his hidden canyon. He explored the narrow, winding trail until he ran into a blank wall that would take a major effort to climb carrying a heavy pack and rifle. At the base of the wall he found a small catchment basin filled with water from the melted snow fifteen feet above the canyon floor. At least that was something. He was at most two miles from his cave camp.

Feeling more secure than he had since leaving the cabin, he moved slowly back to his camp, day dreaming about his reunion with Katrina and Maya. Yevgeny was nearly back to his cave site when he smelled cigarette smoke that lingered on the light breeze blowing in his face. He edged around the last corner of the trail and could now see the opening to his cave. There was no sight of any movement or any sound but the smell of cigarette smoke was stronger. He edged closer to the hidden opening to the canyon. Now he could hear voices. With his back to the wall, Yevgeny slowly moved closer to the thicket that concealed the entrance to the hidden canyon. The voices were Russian and he was close enough to understand what was being said. Yevgeny stiffened when he heard the dominant speaker saying, “I’m telling you, there is someone out here. There are still enemies of the Revolution and deserters living in the forest.”

A second voice said, “Sergeant, we’ve been out here looking for ten days and have only found one partial footprint on the stream bank.”

A third voice said, “That’s true but there are few sources of water in this area now that the snow is gone. Anyone hiding out here has to get water from that stream. All we have to do is wait a few days.”

Yevgeny could identify the sergeant’s voice when he spoke again. “I’ve been hunting men in this forest for the last two years. I know someone is hiding near here. No one is trapping now and there is almost no game for hunters in this portion of the forest. Anyone here is hiding from something. Remember, just ten days northeast of here five local police men disappeared with no trace. The body of one of them was found two weeks ago with a bullet hole.

“The police believe the killer is well armed and a highly skilled woodsman. It is also believed he killed three local trappers who were armed. Now tell me, would an innocent man get water from a stream and leave almost no sign anyone was there and no tracks leading anywhere? No, the man who left the partial footprint is skilled in the ways of the forest and is not innocent. We will stay here until we find him. I don’t believe he is more than few hours from right here.”

“Sergeant,” one of the earlier speakers said, “I know this part of the forest. For more than 20 years I’ve hunted here. A few years ago one of the elders in the village told me there are stories about a primitive settlement in a small hidden place in the hills with ancient paintings on the walls of several caves. He said the last person to see the caves died many years ago. But he swore the story was true.”

“He might be right,” the sergeant said. “Remember when you told me you smelled smoke a week ago? I wasn’t sure then but that was before we found the footprint. I believe now you did smell smoke. We need to search in the rougher country. The way these hills and ridges fold together, there may be hidden caves all around us. Look at the way those two ridges come together, not 25 meters from our fire. Drink your tea and let’s begin right here to search for a way to look between those two ridges.”

Yevgeny felt trapped. He could feel the trickle of sweat running down his back. He couldn’t hold them at the entrance. He only had 15 rounds left for his .30-40 Krag, not enough to engage three well-armed men. Also he didn’t know if there were more men nearby. He judged he could only count on having 15 minutes before they found the entrance. They were practically drinking tea in the entranceway.

No matter how much he tried to erase all signs of having lived for weeks in the cave, it wouldn’t be enough. The smell of his now dead campfire, or a few scattered green pine needles, his human smell, marks in the dust, his latrine, and food smells would give him away. Maybe if he had several hours he could sterilize his campsite but not in less than 15 minutes. No, his only chance was to travel light and try to climb out of the canyon where the steep cliff made this a dead-end canyon. Taking his rifle, water bag, food, and the city clothes he would need, Yevgeny concealed his tracks as he left the cave using his distance running gait down the canyon.

All of Barry Kelly’s novels are available in print in digital formats from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or your local bookstore. Visit www.factsandfictions.com for more by the author.

March 1923

Ten days later, just before first light a sad Yevgeny left a tearful wife and a sleeping daughter as he slipped away into the night. Smoke wanted to come with him but seemed to understand when Yevgeny dropped to his knees, hugged the big shaggy dog, and told him he had to stay and guard the family. He took a southeast heading to take him into the mountainous region north of Irkutsk. He had hunted in the area but did not know it well.

Yevgeny carefully covered his trail until he was several miles from the village. He had seen some caves with grown over entrances. He planned to set up a camp in one of them. He would do just enough hunting and fishing for his food. The less travel in and out of his cave, the fewer tracks he would have to worry about.

For the next three days, Yevgeny moved like a ghost through the rolling, rough country north and east of Irkutsk. He kept off the wider trails used by villagers along streams and rivers and chose the numerous game trails in the higher, rough terrain. He seldom saw anyone. His fires were nearly smokeless and small. The snow and ice were melting. With his sheet of oiled canvass and bearskin, he could keep warm and dry. He still carried the beautiful furs Katrina wanted him to destroy. He just couldn’t do it. He had taken great risks to get the furs and carry them back to the village. Who knows, he might be able to sell them somewhere.

On the fourth day he judged he was within two days of Irkutsk. There was no use moving any closer to populated areas. He had nearly two months to live alone and stay out of sight. He wouldn’t even be able to pass the time hunting and trapping.

Yevgeny had passed several suitable caves in the last few days. He hoped he could find another one now that he was close enough to Irkutsk to wait. It was nearing dusk when he noticed a thicket where two pine-covered slopes came together in a near fold, forming a narrow passage that he only saw when he was preparing to set up his camp for the night. Stopping his search for dry firewood, he crawled under the tangled scrub growth for a closer look. As he pushed his way through, he saw a small clearing ahead. Once in the clearing he stood up, using his rifle barrel to part the remaining branches. Yevgeny saw a very old, narrow trail leading through the passageway between two adjoining cliff faces.

Going back and returning with his pack, he carefully moved through the screen of scrub fir trees. Moving along the twisting path, Yevgeny found a cluster of caves. Slipping his pack and checking his rifle, he went into the second cave of the five he could see. Inside he made a small fire. As the flickering light drove the shadows back, he saw signs that the cave had once been occupied. A series of elegant, primitive painted figures covered one wall of the cave. The cave roof was several feet over his highest reach.

He cut enough pine boughs to make a bed, being careful to hide the fresh cut marks. For the first time since leaving the cabin and Katrina, he slept soundly.

The next morning after a breakfast of smoked meat and tea, he explored the other nearby caves. All the caves had been occupied at one time, but very long ago. He could find no evidence that anyone had used the caves since the primitive people who drew figures in all the caves left. One cave smelled like a bear had used it but he couldn’t tell how long ago. The droppings he found were dried hard. He figured this was as good a place to hole up as he would find.

The only drawback was the lack of water. Now that the snow was nearly all melted due to the warm winter, he had to leave the small hidden canyon to get water. His goatskin bag would only hold two gallons. Every two days he had to make the two-hour round trip to a meandering stream to fill his water bag. He hated to keep going back to the same area but without venturing an additional unknown distance, he had no choice.

In the fourth week of waiting in the cave, he saw footprints along the small stream where he came for water. The tracks were all made with the same type of boot. These footprints were left by some kind of government unit. Maybe there are still small units of the remnants of the White Army subsisting in the forest. Moving carefully back into cover, Yevgeny studied the tracks. It looked to him that the tracks were left by men who came to get water and made a search of the area. Maybe in one of his many visits to the stream he had left some kind of a trail. He could see the men had searched both banks of the stream. They had to have seen something. If they were good trackers and really interested, they would eventually find his trail. A tracking dog could find him with no trouble.

All of Barry Kelly’s novels are available in print in digital formats from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or your local bookstore. Visit www.factsandfictions.com for more by the author.