Siberian Red

refuelling stops, the plane banked lazily to circle the railway junction of Nikolsk at an altitude of 700 feet. Kirov slid back the rear section of the cockpit canopy. With the deliberate and clumsy movements of a child just learning to walk, he climbed out on to the wing, keeping a firm grip on the rim of the canopy.
    The pilot’s jaunty explanation of how to bail out of a moving aircraft had done nothing to inspire confidence in Kirov. ‘I can’t do this!’ he shouted into the wind.
    ‘We have been over this a dozen times, Comrade Major. It’s just like I told you. Wait until I tip the plane and then let go.’
    ‘I don’t care what you told me. Don’t you dare tip this plane!’
    ‘Are you ready?’
    ‘Definitely not!’
    ‘Remember to count to five before you pull the rip cord!’
    It’s simple, Kirov told himself. You just have to let go. For a moment, he thought he could do it. Then, through watering eyes, he stared past the wing to the tiny junction below him. Around it, for as far as he could see, snow-covered woods fanned out in all directions. At that moment, his courage failed him completely. ‘I’m getting back in!’ he shouted.
    The words had not even left his mouth when the plane’s right wing dipped sharply and Kirov’s legs swept out from under him. For a second, his fingers maintained their grip on the cockpit rim. Then he tumbled howling into space. All around him was the roar of the plane’s motor and the rushing of the air. Without counting to five, or any other number, Kirov slapped his hand against his chest, gripped the red-painted oblong metal ring and pulled it as hard as he could.
    In a thunder of unravelling silk, the chute deployed.
    As the canopy came taut, Kirov experienced a jolt which seemed to dislodge every vertebra in his spine.
    Seconds later, he emerged into a strange and peaceful silence. Drifting through space, he had no sensation of falling.
    By now, the plane was no more than a speck against the egg-shell sky, droning like a mosquito as it headed on towards its next refuelling stop.
    A hundred feet below him, Kirov could see the railyard of Nikolsk. There was only one building, with a tar-paper roof, a chimney in the middle and rain barrels beneath each corner gutter. Next to it stood a jumbled heap of firewood almost as big as the building itself.
    The main track ran directly past the building. Opposite lay a siding, which curved in a long metal frown across a clearing littered with buckets, spare railroad ties and stacks of extra rail. At one end sat an old engine, with sides reinforced by layers of riveted steel so that it resembled a giant, sleeping tortoise. At the rear and on both sides of the train, gun turrets bulged like frogs’ eyes. Painted on it, in large white letters, was the name Orlik . At first, the engine appeared to be nothing more than a relic, but then Kirov noticed that there was smoke coming from its stack. As he watched, a man climbed down from the engine and began to make his way across the siding.
    Kirov called to the person, who spun around, searching for the source of the noise. Kirov called once more, and only then did the man raise his head, staring in amazement up into the milky sky.
    Lulled by his dream-like descent, Kirov was now startled to see treetops flashing past as the ground seemed to rise up to meet him. His foot touched the roof of the station house. With long, dance-like steps, he bounded over the shingles, finally coming to a halt only an arm’s length from the edge.
    Kirov gave a triumphant shout, only to be swept off the roof a second later when his chute billowed past him in the breeze.
    He came down hard on the ice-patched ground and lay there in a daze, the wind knocked out of him.
    A face, festooned with tufts of unkempt beard, appeared above him. ‘Who are you?’ asked the man.
    At first, Kirov did not reply. He sat up and looked around. After so many hours in the air, he found the solidity of the earth beneath his aching rear end overwhelming.
    The man crouched down. Along with a set of dirty overalls, he wore a thick fur vest with the hair turned out, giving him an appearance so primitive that Kirov wondered if he had fallen not only through space but also, perhaps, through time.
    ‘I saw the plane. Has it crashed?’
    ‘No. I jumped.’
    The man looked at his desolate surroundings, as if he might have missed something. ‘But why?’
    ‘I’ll explain everything,’ replied Kirov. ‘Just let me