Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) Read Online Free PDF Page A

times he paused to listen, but heard nothing but a soft wind blowing through the trees. Occasionally he saw birds. Grouse seemed common and a kind of lark that was unfamiliar to him.
    Squatting near a piece of bare earth he tried to redraw from memory the map he had studied. South was the Amur and north the Lena. He was now east of Lake Baikal and moving toward the faraway coast, toward the Bering Strait and the Sea of Okhotsk. Between the Bering Strait and his present position lay several low ranges of mountains, much forest, swamp, and tundra lying just below or within the Arctic Circle.
    The Yablonovyi, the Stanovoy, and the Verkhoyansk mountains lay between him and his objective, and some of the coldest land on earth.
    Moving as he must, with great care, and traveling on foot, there was no way he could escape Siberia before winter. Nor was there any way in which he could last out the winter.
    He had not the clothing, the shelter, or the supply of food necessary.
    At more than fifty below, rubber tires crack and metal becomes fragile. If a car survives two to three years the owner is fortunate.
    And winter was coming, with temperatures that would hover between fifty and eighty degrees below zero.
    He stood up and with his boot he rubbed out his crude map. He started on, and just over the mountains the cold awaited.
    Icy, bitter, deathly cold…
    Chapter 4
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    C OLONEL ZAMATEV WAS sitting behind his table when Pennington entered the room. On the bench at one side sat Lieutenant Suvarov and the Yakut, Alekhin. There was a chair placed near the table that faced all three.
    Zamatev gestured to the chair. “Sit down, please.” The Colonel had been an attaché in both London and Paris. He spoke English and French with equal fluency.
    Pennington seated himself warily. What lay before him he did not know. Did they know he had helped the American?
    “Major Makatozi has escaped, and you talked with him.”
    “A few words during the exercise period.”
    “Nevertheless, you did speak. Did he tell you he planned to escape?”
    “Would it be likely? He would not have trusted someone he did not know. He is an Indian. I do not believe they talk very much. Not, at least, to a strange white man.”
    Makatozi was gone, and what harm could speaking do now? “As a matter of fact,” he added, “he did say something about leaving. I believe he disliked the accommodations.” Pennington smiled. “Even Indians expect better.”
    Zamatev ignored the comment. He seemed disposed to be affable. What he wanted was information. Pennington considered that while he waited for the next question. He knew of nothing he could say that would affect the American’s chances, and he wished to apply the needle.
    “Anything you can tell us might help him,” Zamatev suggested. “I am sure the Major had no idea what he was escaping to. You see, we had plans for the Major as we do for you. Both of you can be employed here, can live in comfort and security and have a better life than in your own countries.
    “Escape from Siberia is impossible! Soon it will be winter. Without clothing, food, and shelter a man cannot exist.
    “If he is unfortunate enough to elude pursuit, the land will kill him. I have seen men frozen, but we rarely find them before the wild animals have been at them. If you could help us—?”
    Pennington had no intention of helping, nor did he know anything of the American, who had made no mention of his plans once he was over the wire. However, he had once done a paper on the Sioux. At the time he had been wavering between chemistry, his first love, and a developing interest in anthropology.
    “Major Makatozi,” he commented, “is a Sioux. They were a warrior people, noted for their courage and their ability to bear great pain without flinching. A Sioux warrior was conditioned to endure long periods of hunger and exposure. It was their belief that it was better to die in battle than to live to an old age.”
    Pennington smiled