The train was a promise made of steel and steam. Its whistle cut through the falling snow, a long, mournful cry in the vast, white dark. Sineus and his four broken pieces of a unit were huddled in the ditch beside the tracks, the cold a physical weight. They had walked for three hours, a forced march through the blizzard, guided by the mad geometry of Sokolov’s map. The scientist had been right.
The locomotive thundered past, a black monster breathing fire and smoke. Its pistons drove with relentless power. Behind it, the dark shapes of the carriages slid by.
— Now, — Sineus said.
They moved. There was no other choice. Kulagin went first, a solid shadow moving with the economy of a lifelong soldier. He swung himself up the iron ladder of a freight car, his submachine gun held tight against his chest. He reached the top, scanned the length of the train, and gave a sharp, downward gesture. Clear.
Sineus pushed Sokolov toward the next car. The scientist stumbled, his movements clumsy. Sineus grabbed the back of his coat and shoved him toward the ladder.
— Climb.
Zoya was already moving, a wraith of motion. She flowed up the side of the car as if the steel rungs were made for her. She carried her rifle and her rage with equal ease. Morozov was last. The political officer moved like a man in a dream, his limbs disconnected from his will. Sineus had to grab his arm and force him onto the first rung.
Sineus followed, swinging up onto the moving train. The wind tore at him, filled with ice and the bitter smell of coal smoke. He moved along the roof of the carriage, his boots finding purchase on the frozen metal. Kulagin had the hatch open. One by one, they dropped into the darkness inside.
The carriage was for troops. It was packed with soldiers, a mass of grey greatcoats and weary faces. The air was thick with the smell of cheap tobacco, sweat, and damp wool. The only light came from two bare, yellow bulbs that swayed with the motion of the train. It was warm. The heat was a shock, a luxury so profound it felt like a sin. They found a space near the rear of the car, a small island in the sea of bodies.
Kulagin took up a position by the door, his eyes scanning the other soldiers. He was a rock. A fixed point in a world of chaos. Zoya slid into a dark corner between a stack of crates and the wall, pulling her knees to her chest. She became part of the shadows, her presence shrinking until she was just another bundle of rags. Her hand never left the knife at her belt.
Morozov sat on the floor, his back against the wall, his gaze fixed on nothing. He was a shell. The man who had believed in the righteous power of the state was gone, and only this empty vessel remained. Sokolov, shivering, pulled a thin blanket around his shoulders and immediately began studying his strange map, its lines and symbols meaningless to anyone but him.
Sineus stood, his hand gripping a leather strap hanging from the ceiling. He let the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the track work its way into his bones. Clack-clack. Clack-clack. It was the sound of distance. The sound of escape. For eighty kilometers, there was only the rhythm and the darkness outside the grimy windows. He was a commander with no command, a traitor in a hero’s uniform, and for a few hours, he was safe. He caught his reflection in the dark glass of the window. A pale, gaunt face stared back, a ghost superimposed over the rushing night. It was his face, but it felt like a stranger’s.
The train began to slow. The rhythm broke. The high-pitched squeal of brakes cut through the low murmur of the carriage. Soldiers stirred, grumbling.
— What is it? — someone asked.
— Checkpoint, — another answered.
The doors at the far end of the carriage slid open. Two men stepped inside. They wore the blue-banded caps of the NKVD. The first was a heavy-set sergeant. The second was a lieutenant, young, thin, with eyes that were too sharp. He held a clipboard. He moved with the cold, precise arrogance of a man whose authority came from a file cabinet, not a battlefield.
The lieutenant started at the far end of the car.
— Papers. Your travel authorizations. Have them ready.
His voice was crisp. It cut through the warm, stale air like a shard of ice. Sineus felt a familiar tightening in his gut. This was the test. The forged orders Sokolov had created were good. But they were not perfect.
The lieutenant moved down the aisle, checking papers, his eyes missing nothing. He was methodical. Unhurried. He was the system in motion. Sineus watched him come. He felt Kulagin shift his weight beside him. He saw Zoya’s hand tighten on her knife.
The officer reached their small group. He looked at them, his gaze lingering on their mismatched state. A commander, a sergeant major, a partisan girl, a broken political officer, and a shivering academic.
— Your papers, Commander, — the lieutenant said. His eyes were pale grey. The color of a winter sky.
Sineus handed him the folder. The price of this ride was a lie, and the currency was his nerve. The lieutenant opened it. He read the orders, his expression unreadable.
— Special assignment, — he said. It was not a question. — From the Red Directorate.
— That is what the papers say, — Sineus answered. His voice was level. He kept it empty of challenge.
The lieutenant looked from the papers to the faces of the group.
— Your team is… irregular. A partisan. An academic.
— The Directorate’s needs are irregular, Lieutenant.
The officer’s eyes narrowed. He tapped a finger on the paper. On the official stamp.
— This stamp is smudged. The ink is still wet.
The moment hung in the air. The carriage was silent, save for the hiss of the brakes. This was the turn. The point where the bluff either worked or it failed. Failure meant a short walk off the train into the snow and a bullet in the back of the head. Sineus leaned forward, just a few centimeters. He lowered his voice.
— Are you questioning an order from General Volkov’s office?
The lieutenant’s jaw tightened. The use of the General’s name was a direct challenge to his authority.
— I am questioning a smudged stamp, Commander. It is my duty.
— And it is my duty to complete my mission, — Sineus said, his voice still low, but now with a hard edge of menace. — A mission of the highest state security. I can have your commanding officer on the radio in five minutes to clarify your duties for you. Or you can complete your inspection and allow me to complete mine.
He held the lieutenant’s gaze. He did not blink. He let the threat hang in the air between them. The threat of a general’s wrath. The threat of a career ruined over a smudge of ink. Behind the officer, Sineus saw his own reflection in the window, fractured by the grime. For a second, it was not his face, but Kulagin’s, hard and unforgiving.
The lieutenant hesitated. His certainty wavered. He glanced at Kulagin, who stared back with the dead-eyed calm of a man who had killed hundreds. He saw Zoya, coiled like a spring in the corner. He looked back at Sineus, at the cold authority in his eyes. The authority of a man used to giving orders that resulted in death.
A sudden, wracking cough broke the silence. Sokolov was doubled over, his body shaking. It was a deep, wet, rattling sound. The sound of a man with failing lungs.
— Apologies, Commander, — the scientist rasped between coughs. — The cold… in the marsh…
The lieutenant’s focus broke. He looked at Sokolov with disgust. The academic was no longer a suspicious anomaly, just a pathetic liability. A piece of broken equipment being transported.
The officer made his decision. The risk of challenging a Directorate commander was greater than the risk of ignoring a smudged stamp. He took out his own stamp, inked it, and slammed it down on the papers. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet carriage.
— Proceed, Commander, — he said, his voice clipped. He handed the folder back to Sineus.
He did not look at them again. He turned and continued down the aisle, his inspection suddenly moving much faster. He wanted to be out of the carriage. Away from them.
Sineus took the folder. His hand was steady. He gave a slight nod to Kulagin. The Sergeant Major let out a breath he had been holding for a full minute. Zoya relaxed in her corner, her hand moving away from her knife.
The train lurched, then began to pick up speed. The checkpoint was passed. The immediate danger was gone. Sineus felt a dull throb begin behind his eyes. The strain of the confrontation. He looked out the window again. The world was a blur of white. Outside, he saw a flicker of motion. A lone railway worker, caught in a stuttering, repeating arc of swinging a hammer. A scar in the world. A reminder of the war he was now fighting.
The train’s brakes screeched. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels broke again. The train was slowing. But they had just left the checkpoint. This was not a scheduled stop.
Sineus looked out the window. Lights glowed through the snow. A station. It was large, a major junction, with multiple platforms and the dark shapes of other trains waiting on the tracks. This was not some minor depot in the middle of the steppe.
— What is this place? — he asked Sokolov.
The scientist was already looking at his map. His face was pale.
— This is not on the schedule, — he said. — We should not be stopping here.
Kulagin was on his feet, his weapon held ready.
— Ambush, — he said. The word was a flat, hard fact.
