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JUNE 30, 1908
Tunguska River, Siberia
7:15 A.M.
The sun had risen high enough to chase away the red, orange, and purple hues of morning’s first light. The sky was now clear and blue, the air still frosted from the sunless chill of the night before.
The morning started for the herdsmen and villagers as each morning had started for countless years, gathering the herds of reindeer and moving them to the river’s edge where they would quench their thirst, before heading up to the flat tundra to feed on the nutrient rich grasses until dusk and then the routine of life on the Siberian tundra would prepare to repeat.
This morning began no differently from all the other mornings, until, a flash of silent white light, brighter than the sun, lit up the sky. It blinded the reindeer herdsmen at the Tunguska River’s edge, who were forced to close their eyes tightly in an attempt to shield them from the searing light. Some herdsmen grabbed on to trees to steady themselves. Several reindeer in the herd, stumbled into the river, blinded, then panicked to regain their footing as the swift and cold early summer waters threatened to carry them away.
Then the air split as an explosion of searing white light filled the sky, sending rings of shock waves crashing into the forest.
In the distance a tower of flames shot up hundreds of feet. From there, a wave of super-heated air rolled out. The trees closest to the flashpoint burst into flames, and those farther out, tumbled into a concentric circle of destruction.
The currents of searing air swept into the Evenki village, scorching thatched roofs of tundra grasses and singeing the hair on herds of frightened reindeer and even more frightened woman and children.
Then a second explosion, more powerful than the first and closer to the forest floor, ripped through the river valley, the few trees that had managed to remain standing after the first explosion, now fell, unable to stand against the wall of air. The intensity of the shock wave shattered the eardrums of reindeer and herdsmen alike, sparing them from the anguished cries of their dying brethren.
A morning that had begun as a quiet June day was now in turmoil. The clouds above that were once white against the blue sky, now unleashed a rain of blackened ash and soil. The sun, that only moments before had warmed the forest, was all but gone, hidden by the veil of smoke, dust and ash.
All was chaos.
Gregori Rasputin braced himself. Even here at the Lake Baykai observatory, some one hundred miles away, the ground shook, causing the observation tower to sway. From his vantage point on the sixty-foot wooden tower, Rasputin watched as the smoke rose, the skies darkened and the forest in front of him burned.
Even at this distance the air picked up the cries and screams of the forest. Rasputin covered his ears and turned away from the distant destruction and the sight of his failure.
He quickly climbed down from the tower and stumbled as he ran toward his carriage. There, a groomsman held fast to the reins of the harness, fighting to steady the four frightened horses.
Rasputin stepped up to the carriage, and shouted to the groomsman in Russian, “Take me to Alexandra,” his thick accent was barely understood by the locals, but his wild gesticulations made the point clear. The groomsman climbed up onto the carriage, slapped the reins onto the backs of the horses and galloped away.
Inside the carriage, Rasputin closed the curtains covering the windows tightly. He did not want to complicate matters any further by witnessing any more of the destruction his invention had caused. He would have much to explain to the Tsar when he returned to Saint Petersburg, and his mind was already at work on possible causes, excuses, and of course, who the Tsar should blame for the failure. Fortunately, Rasputin’s relationship with Alexandra was steadfast and he took comfort that she would protect him.
She always had.