Free The River of Bones v5 by Tom Hron Page A

radar.
    He knew Simon and he’d pop up as an indistinct blip if they were discovered in their close formation, but without any posted flight plan matching their course, red alerts would go off, warning every military base along their flight path.  They could only hope to dodge under the invisible beams scanning the horizon by flying below their normal elevation and in the ground clutter that always spoiled their return to the station.  He knew the B50 bombers and F111 fighters had been built for the same purpose back when he was kid.  The U.S. Air Force must have discovered Russia’s radar was faulty, so chances were good they could avoid detection by staying low.
    At last he found what he was looking for—a hunting shack passed below his left wing.  Snow tractor trails covered the lake the cabin was on, and its chimney pipe looked free of smoke, meaning the owner was away.  The time had come for breaking their radio silence.
    “Iceworm, let’s land and check this place out.  Looks like no one is home.”
    “Roger, looks good.”
    He landed, kept his Cub sledding on its skis, circled back to the hunting camp, and saw Simon was trailing him and coming around fast as well.  They already had their plan—come head-on and keep their Uzis ready in case the owner popped up unexpectedly.
    Frozen reindeer carcasses, freshly slaughtered, hung solemnly from a cross-pole tied between two small trees.  Wolf hides and blue fox fur, nailed to the gable of the cabin, fluttered in the wind.  A woodpile was stacked nearby, and a small clapboard cache on stilts stood off to one side.  A broken sled, wooden cross-country skis, and several fuel drums were scattered around.  The place looked just like the hunting camps he’d often visited in Alaska, practical but messy, and mostly built from the resources of the taiga surrounding the lake.
    After shutting down the engine, he waited in his airplane and watched the empty yard.  Both had agreed Simon would go first, then if someone was home at least they could talk to him or her.
    Simon walked by.  “Stay put and I’ll snoop around.  We better hope the guy living here is running his trapline.”
    Simon climbed the shoreline, kicking through the snow as if there was no great rush to reach the cabin.  Stepping up onto the porch, he knocked on the door.  Pausing, he knocked once more, then shouted, “Zdrastvooytye, Zdrastvooytye.”   Next, he walked across the yard to a fuel barrel and kicked it, then kicked another.  A smile spread on his face and he waved both arms, signaling he’d found full ones.
    Jumping out of his airplane, Jake also smiled.  All his worry now seemed silly.  Start carrying gas, he told himself, and let’s get out of here before the owner gets back.  We’ll leave him a thousand bucks and that should keep him happy.  He shoved his Uzi inside his parka, pulled his rifle out of its scabbard, and walked ashore.
    “Is there enough so we can take a hundred gallons and still leave some behind?  Whoever lives here is a professional hunter and needs his snow tractor, and I don’t want to put him out of business.”
    “There’s plenty, and I doubt he’ll give a damn if we leave him a little money.”
    “I thought we’d leave a thousand dollars.”
    Simon cocked an eyebrow.  “That’s more than thirty thousand rubles at the present rate of exchange.  He may never want to hunt or trap again.”
    They starting carrying gas, twenty gallons at a time, first filling their wing tanks, then the belly tanks.  They emptied one drum and opened another.  The surrounding taiga lay silent, except for the sounds they made as they hurried back and forth.
    Suddenly, Simon stopped in mid-stride.  “I hear something coming.”
    Listening, Jake stood still as well.  Yes . . . no.  There was only the silence of the wind.  Had they really heard faint noises or were their ears playing tricks?  Both stayed frozen in place.
    Whack!   Bark flew off a tree near