airplanes, started them, and warmed the engines at idle. The low sound cut into the ghostly darkness.
Jake pulled on the night goggles they’d ordered from a spy equipment distributor on the internet. Ironically, they were Russian made, but first-class, nevertheless, he thought. Lithium batteries for freezing temperatures, shared aperture filters for flight use, and automatic brightness controls made up only part of the excellent vision the glasses provided at night. Simon and he’d found the magical devices ideal for flying in small airplanes and helicopters.
He throttled up, kicked the rudders back and forth, broke the Super Cub’s skis free of the frozen snow, and sledded forward. When he saw the airplane’s nose swing along the open pack ice, he eased on full power, felt the landing gear start bouncing, then break away from the surface. The airplane shot ahead into an ungodly, gray world of night vision and propeller buzz and smells of cabin heat, motor oil, and aviation fuel. They were on their way. The weeks of careful preparation had lasted too long. He smiled and flew his airplane five feet above the ice. Let the Russians try finding me down here. Snowmobiles couldn’t run much closer to the snow.
An hour later he pulled off his goggles, blinked to clear his eyes, and looked around. He saw Simon out his right window, flying formation one hundred feet back, and he watched him give the thumbsup signal that all was well. Looking farther back, he saw the color of the coming morning, or yesterday, as Simon would say. Soon, they would pass to a new time and place. Pressing his airplane nearer the ice, he skipped over the pressure ridges, missing by a foot or two. Stay low and keep out of sight . . .
He saw St. Lawrence Island on the skyline just ahead of his left wing, a massive, gray mound sitting on a white seascape. Quickly, he searched for Siberia. Where was it? It must be off his right wing somewhere. . . . He felt his hair stand up on the back of his neck. What would the forbidden land look like? Moments later, he watched a sooty smudge on the far horizon turn blacker, then to a dark headland in the distance. Cape Tschukotski, south of Provideniya . . . and now they’d indisputably crossed to the Russian side.
He had cautiously gotten a friend to shoptalk about the little town of Provideniya before Simon and he’d left Anchorage. The woman had flown there on a sightseeing trip with three passengers in the past summer, using a Cessna on amphibious seaplane floats. She had described the place as ramshackle and desolate, with mostly native residents. A small military detachment had guarded the town, such as it was in its forsaken state. She’d also said the army, wearing ragged old uniforms and carrying AK-47 rifles with live ammunition clips, had stared angrily at her, seemingly furious about her owning her own airplane. Her customers had been happy to leave.
Another friend, who sold Siberian hunting and fishing trips for Russian partners, had described Siberia as actually three regions—the Far East, which included Provideniya, the Maritime Province with Vladivostok being its principal city, and Siberia proper, the great expanse lying north of Mongolia and east of the Urals. He had also said the land was like Alaska and Canada—rugged, wooded with tamarack, and filled with animals common to the Arctic, such as the moose, brown bear, wolf, and reindeer. Wilderness tracts were leased by the government to market hunters who harvested the wildlife for meat and furs, in turn selling their raw products to the nearest town, supplying the local population with much needed food and clothing. Subsist or starve was the choice for most Siberians.
The man had also said Russia commonly used turbine helicopters for travel in the bush, and little regular gasoline was available for reciprocating engines. All gas was strictly rationed for snow tractors and
Jake pulled on the night goggles they’d ordered from a spy equipment distributor on the internet. Ironically, they were Russian made, but first-class, nevertheless, he thought. Lithium batteries for freezing temperatures, shared aperture filters for flight use, and automatic brightness controls made up only part of the excellent vision the glasses provided at night. Simon and he’d found the magical devices ideal for flying in small airplanes and helicopters.
He throttled up, kicked the rudders back and forth, broke the Super Cub’s skis free of the frozen snow, and sledded forward. When he saw the airplane’s nose swing along the open pack ice, he eased on full power, felt the landing gear start bouncing, then break away from the surface. The airplane shot ahead into an ungodly, gray world of night vision and propeller buzz and smells of cabin heat, motor oil, and aviation fuel. They were on their way. The weeks of careful preparation had lasted too long. He smiled and flew his airplane five feet above the ice. Let the Russians try finding me down here. Snowmobiles couldn’t run much closer to the snow.
An hour later he pulled off his goggles, blinked to clear his eyes, and looked around. He saw Simon out his right window, flying formation one hundred feet back, and he watched him give the thumbsup signal that all was well. Looking farther back, he saw the color of the coming morning, or yesterday, as Simon would say. Soon, they would pass to a new time and place. Pressing his airplane nearer the ice, he skipped over the pressure ridges, missing by a foot or two. Stay low and keep out of sight . . .
He saw St. Lawrence Island on the skyline just ahead of his left wing, a massive, gray mound sitting on a white seascape. Quickly, he searched for Siberia. Where was it? It must be off his right wing somewhere. . . . He felt his hair stand up on the back of his neck. What would the forbidden land look like? Moments later, he watched a sooty smudge on the far horizon turn blacker, then to a dark headland in the distance. Cape Tschukotski, south of Provideniya . . . and now they’d indisputably crossed to the Russian side.
He had cautiously gotten a friend to shoptalk about the little town of Provideniya before Simon and he’d left Anchorage. The woman had flown there on a sightseeing trip with three passengers in the past summer, using a Cessna on amphibious seaplane floats. She had described the place as ramshackle and desolate, with mostly native residents. A small military detachment had guarded the town, such as it was in its forsaken state. She’d also said the army, wearing ragged old uniforms and carrying AK-47 rifles with live ammunition clips, had stared angrily at her, seemingly furious about her owning her own airplane. Her customers had been happy to leave.
Another friend, who sold Siberian hunting and fishing trips for Russian partners, had described Siberia as actually three regions—the Far East, which included Provideniya, the Maritime Province with Vladivostok being its principal city, and Siberia proper, the great expanse lying north of Mongolia and east of the Urals. He had also said the land was like Alaska and Canada—rugged, wooded with tamarack, and filled with animals common to the Arctic, such as the moose, brown bear, wolf, and reindeer. Wilderness tracts were leased by the government to market hunters who harvested the wildlife for meat and furs, in turn selling their raw products to the nearest town, supplying the local population with much needed food and clothing. Subsist or starve was the choice for most Siberians.
The man had also said Russia commonly used turbine helicopters for travel in the bush, and little regular gasoline was available for reciprocating engines. All gas was strictly rationed for snow tractors and
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