“Will this rain ever end?” groused Jeremy Hayes, looking out of his tent at the downpour.
“It could be worse,” said an older man with a stocky figure and a thick, salt-and-pepper beard on his round face.
“How so, Professor Karpov?” said Hayes, running a hand through his wavy red hair.
“This is Russia; it could be worse. It could be snowing.”
“Perish the thought.”
“I thought I told you years ago to call me Gennadi.”
“Sorry, it’s a force of habit. I’ll try to use your first name when we’re not around your students.”
“Enough talk. Let’s put on our raingear and see how the dig is going.”
A cold shiver ran down Hayes’ spine. “Only if you insist.”
Karpov smiled, exposing a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. “My friend, you have gotten soft since the last time I saw you.”
“That was five years ago at a summertime dig in the Crimea, looking for artifacts from the Allied siege of Sevastopol. If I wanted to work in the rain, I’d move back home to England.”
Karpov chuckled. “Come, Jeremy, let’s see what my students have dug up this morning.”
Hayes pulled up the hood on his jacket and followed his friend out into the pouring rain. They dashed past a couple of parked earthmovers and a noisy, ten-kilowatt generator belching out black smoke before coming to a large Russian Army tent. Both men hurried inside and shook the water from their damp clothes. Several large lamps lit up the interior of the tent. Aside from some of the students working in the excavation site, there was a row of tables covered with artifacts being cleaned by three more students.
A young, blond-haired woman in a set of dirty coveralls, with a clipboard in her hand, waved at the men. “Professor Karpov, I think we’ve found something that will help identify this airplane.”
“What did you find, Daria?” asked Karpov.
“We’ve located the engine block number.”
“Excellent,” replied Karpov, rubbing his hands together.
Hayes walked to the edge of the large, rectangular hole dug into the ground. He took in a deep breath through his nostrils and smelled the freshly dug earth. Hayes closed his eyes and recalled a time just before he entered university, when he wanted to be an archaeologist and travel the world. Fate, however, intervened when the British Armed Forces took a keen interest in him and guided him into the study of advanced-weapons research. Still, every chance he got, Hayes joined an expedition to dig up the past, as long as he didn’t get dirty, wet, or cold doing it.
“So, what do you think?” asked Karpov, patting Hayes on the back.
“Impressive,” replied Hayes, looking down on the nearly intact body of a Second World War British Royal Air Force Hawker Hurricane partially buried in the dirt. Remarkably, the fighter looked in great shape. The large Soviet red stars on the wings looked as if they had only just been painted on. The glass cockpit was open, exposing the empty pilot’s hardened metal seat.
“It’s one of your country’s lend-lease fighters sent here in 1942 to help defend Leningrad—when it was still called that.”
“Aside from the couple I’ve seen in museums, this has to be the best-preserved plane I’ve ever come across.”
“This area used to be a swamp,” explained Karpov. “The plane must have come down and landed on the marshy ground before sinking into the mire, which helped to preserve it. The swamp was drained a few years back to make way for a new housing development. It was only this year that the construction began in earnest, and as soon as they found the tail section of the plane, all work was halted.”
“No offense, Gennadi, but Russia these days isn’t known for placing its history in front of making money selling new condos. I’m surprised it wasn’t hauled out of the ground by a backhoe in the middle of the night so the construction could continue.”
“No offense taken, my friend. You are perfectly right to point that out. It does seem like it’s money before anything else these days. As soon as it was announced on the local news that a fighter had been found, the entire operation was bought by Viktor Nazarov, and the construction halted until a proper archaeological dig could be accomplished.”
Hayes scrunched up his face thoughtfully. “That’s great, but why have I never heard of this gentleman?”
“Not many people have. He’s an incredibly reclusive billionaire with a love of history. No one truly knows where he came from. After the fall of communism, it’s reputed that he made a fortune in computer, rocketry, and satellite technology. He has several homes spread throughout the country and is rarely seen, let alone photographed, in public. His foundation, Cynosura, is paying for everything you see here.”
“Cynosura,” said Hayes to himself a couple of times before snapping his fingers in the air. “That’s ancient Greek for the North Star, isn’t it?”
“Eureka!” replied Karpov. “Let’s see what my students are working on over at the tables.”
On the folding tables were items taken from inside the cockpit. Hayes picked up the pilot’s rubber oxygen mask and examined it for a minute before handing it to Karpov. Next, he took hold of the pilot’s leather helmet and looked at the earpieces and tried to imagine how terrifying it would have been for a teenager to fly a fighter plane in combat during the war.
A student walked over and placed a canvas parachute harness on a table.
Hayes ran his hands over the canvas straps. The parachute was still packed in its bag. Poor bugger; the pilot must have gone down with his plane, thought Hayes. He looked at Karpov. “I take it you found the pilot’s remains when you began your excavation?”
“Why would you say that?”
Hayes held up the parachute. “Well, it’s obvious that he never jumped from his plane.”
Karpov’s eyes twinkled. “I was waiting to see if you would notice that. If you think that’s odd, so far, we have been unable to find any puncture marks on the plane. It doesn’t look like it was shot down. And to add to the mystery, we found these in the cockpit as well,” said Karpov, reaching under the table and placing a pair of leather boots on it.
“Curious,” said Hayes.
“There were no remains whatsoever found in the cockpit. It’s as if the pilot vanished in mid-flight. My students have started calling it the haunted fighter. I’m hoping the engine block number will tell us which fighter regiment this plane belonged to, and what it was doing the day it went down in the swamp.”
“Let’s cross our fingers that the records survived the war.”
“We’ll probably know one way or another by tomorrow morning.”
“So, what do you want to do until the information comes in?”
Karpov smiled. “For the rest of the day, you and I can help my people catalog these artifacts, and after supper, I’ll open a fresh bottle of vodka, and we can talk over old times.”
Hayes’ stomach churned. It didn’t take many drinks to make him feel ill. He put a fake smile on his face. “Sounds good, Gennadi, I can hardly wait.”
“Good. I’ll make a Russian out of you yet.”
The next morning, Hayes rolled out of his bed and placed his feet on the cold floor of his tent. His head felt as if it were going to explode. Even his teeth hurt. Hayes hung his head low and took in a couple of deep breaths to clear away the cobwebs in his mind. He took his time getting to his feet. Hayes looked around for his slippers and found them at the foot of his cot. He slipped them on before getting dressed in his red housecoat. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, which felt drier than the Sahara Desert.
“Tea,” Hayes mumbled. “I need a cup of tea.”
He walked outside into a light fog that clung to the field and woods surrounding the dig. The rain clouds were no longer there, having departed sometime during the night. He headed over to the mess tent and straight for a dual hot beverage maker: coffee on one side and hot water on the other. He filled a cup with hot water and grabbed a teabag. Hayes looked around and saw that aside from himself there was only the cook and a handful of students in the tent. He took a seat at an empty table and placed his hands around his cup to warm them.
“Ah, there you are, Jeremy,” said Karpov, striding into the mess tent. If last night’s drinking bothered him, he didn’t let it show. In Karpov’s hands were several documents. He poured himself a coffee and sat down across from Hayes.
“My friend, you look like hell,” said Karpov.
“I warned you that I’m not much of a drinker,” replied Hayes.
“Yes, perhaps three bottles were too much.”
“Three,” croaked Hayes. “No wonder I want to go back to my tent and die.”
“Here, perhaps these reports can cheer you up,” said Karpov, handing one of the papers over to Hayes.
Hayes adjusted his glasses and started to read. His strong grasp of the Russian language came from an immigrant nanny who had raised him more than his busy parents had. The first paper was an official report from the Russian Ministry of Defense. It confirmed the engine block number came from a plane flown by the 153rd Fighter Regiment. The plane was reported missing after a sortie against some German bombers over Leningrad on the ninth of October 1942. There was no mention of the missing pilot.
“Helpful, but it doesn’t answer what happened to the pilot,” said Hayes.
Karpov grinned as he slid over another report. “This is from the regimental adjutant of the 153rd. It makes for quite an interesting read.”
Hayes sipped his tea as he perused the report. Halfway down, he stopped and looked over at his friend. “Are you sure this isn’t fake?”
“Jeremy, trust me, this is a real document, as no one has had access to these files since the end of the war.”
Hayes read aloud. “This report is factual and given without duress by Lieutenant Yuri Burdin. After failing to locate any fascist bombers over Leningrad, my wingman and I turned back toward our base to refuel when a light brighter than the sun suddenly appeared in the night sky just above us. It followed us for about five minutes before flying at an incredible speed to a position in front of our planes. I tried to contact Lieutenant Tababkov but found that my radio was unresponsive. A second later, the light dimmed, and I could see that it was a glowing, orange disc. It shot straight at us, coming to a dead stop right above Tababkov’s plane. A white light shot from the bottom of the disc, enveloping Tababkov’s cockpit. When the light switched off, to my dismay, I saw that Tababkov was no longer in his seat. Whatever had attacked him, had taken Tababkov. I watched impotently as his plane’s engine switched off. Tababkov’s plane glided down and vanished into a swamp.”
Hayes read the rest of the report in silence. When he finished, he handed back the paper. “His superiors must have thought him mad when he got back to his base.”
“That, they did,” said Karpov. “They accused Tababkov of desertion and held Burdin responsible. The next day he was shot for cowardice in the face of the enemy.”
“Hardly fair.”
“Life in wartime Russia under Stalin was hardly ever fair. But it doesn’t end there.” Karpov presented one last piece of paper to Hayes. “This comes from the Special Assignments Bureau of the NKVD.”
“NKVD…wasn’t that the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs?”
“Correct.”
Hayes read over the letter and placed it down. “So, the Soviets were as interested in UFOs as the allies during the war.”
“Yes, very much so. Your people called them foo fighters. In Russia, they were named the Devil’s Fire. The officer assigned to investigate these strange sightings was Major Andrei Guskov. He crisscrossed the Soviet Union, trying to gather as much information as he could on these anomalies. Most of the time, he arrived too late to interview the pilots, as they were either dead or shipped off to a gulag in Siberia to keep the word from spreading that there were advanced fighters in the air above the Soviet Union.”
“Even Winston Churchill was allegedly briefed by General Eisenhower about UFO activity over Great Britain during the war, and both decided it was best to keep it quiet, as to not alarm an already scared populace,” said Hayes.
Karpov continued. “Major Guskov’s conclusions were kept top secret until the fall of the Soviet Union. As you can see, he believed that some sightings were of extraterrestrial origin and posed a direct threat to the safety of the Soviet Union. He asked for more time to study them during the post-war period.”
“I take it the Soviets established their own version of Project Bluebook?”
“They did, but I believe it folded when the communists were removed from power.”
Hayes took another sip of tea. “This is truly remarkable. How on earth did you get this information so quickly? It would take months of digging around the archives back home in London to find this amount of information.”
“I have been told by a reliable source that our benefactor, Viktor Nazarov, has a team of experts on standby in Moscow, should he ever want a question answered. The faster they answer Nazarov’s queries, the more they get paid.”
“Gennadi, you do realize that there are any number of answers that could explain what happened the night the pilot allegedly went missing. For starters, they could have mistaken Venus for a glowing, bright light in the sky, or it could just as easily been gas coming up from the swamp.”
“What about the pilot? How do you explain him away?”
“He may have been suicidal and jumped from the plane without his parachute.”
“Then why didn’t Lieutenant Burdin report that?”
“Because he was momentarily blinded by Venus and failed to see Tababkov leap to his death.”
“What of Major Guskov’s report? Surely not every UFO was swamp gas or the planet Venus?”
“From what I’ve read, misidentification of natural phenomenon is usually to blame. Stars, clouds, and birds flying in formation have all be reported as UFOs. I’m not saying Guskov wasted his time investigating these alleged sightings; all I’m trying to say is that there’s usually a simple explanation to each and every one of the cases he investigated.”
“Until we find evidence to disprove Lieutenant Tababkov was abducted, that’s the story I’m presenting to the press tomorrow. Just think of the public curiosity that will be aroused by this announcement. My students and I will become instant celebrities. After tomorrow, it won’t be hard to get grants to continue our work looking for relics from the war.”
Hayes smiled. He hadn’t realized his friend was such a publicity seeker. “No, I suppose not. For a while, you and your people will be quite popular with the media.”
“I’ll have to get a new suit,” remarked Karpov.
“Yes, one with a little more room around the middle.”
Karpov patted his stomach. “A little, maybe.”
Hayes shook his head. “I don’t think I’m going to be sick, so perhaps it’s time to try and eat some breakfast.”
“Good,” said Karpov, standing up, “as the cook has whipped up something extra special for us this morning.”
“Oh? What might that be?”
“Porridge.”
“Great, I’m back in boarding school,” said Hayes under his breath.
A young student entered the tent carrying a cell phone. “Professor Karpov, I have a call for you.”
Karpov thanked the man and took the phone. “Yes?”
Hayes watched his friend’s eyes grow large and listened to him struggle for words during the conversation. When the call was over, Karpov stood there mutely, staring at the far wall of the tent.
“What was all that about?” asked Hayes.
“It was Viktor Nazarov’s executive assistant on the phone. She said he wants to meet us and is sending a helicopter to pick us up an hour from now.”
“Did she say why?”
“He wants to offer us another assignment.”
“I hope you told her that I’m only visiting?”
“I tried, but she was very insistent that you come with me.”
Hayes frowned. “I find this highly peculiar. Don’t you?”
“Sure, but who am I to say no to Viktor Nazarov? Please say you’ll accompany me. I don’t want to jeopardize the substantial funding we receive from his foundation.”
Hayes felt as if he were being painted into a corner. “Okay, I’ll come with you, but this assignment can’t last any longer than a couple of days, as I have a flight to catch home on Friday.”
Karpov let out a whoop. “Thank you, Jeremy. I’m sure you won’t live to regret your decision.”
I think I already do, thought Hayes.