Blood and Moss
© 2013 by  Walt46

Art by  sethtriggs

Part Two

Viktor Klyuchko watched as the rest of his group prepared to descend. The breeze fanned up a variety of scents to his lupine nose – the smells of a deep forest of conifers. The nearer trees whipped back and forth in response to the wind and the airship’s backwash. He raised his voice to be heard over the thrum of the propellers. “Lower away!” he ordered.

At his command, the squad and the airship’s crew gently paid out cables and ten MCM-2 motorcycles were lowered to the clearing below. Each of the bikes bore panniers containing extra fuel and ammunition, along with other gear considered essential. The soldiers had had extensive training on the MCM (Malyi Selskii Mototsykl); the bikes had magnesium and aluminum frames and wheels, with large deep-treaded tires and flared fenders that experience had proven to be adequate for cross-country travel. They were fast, and relatively quiet for motorcycles.

Cossacks were famous for their prowess with feral horses, but this was a more mechanical age, the Ukrainian reflected. Motors and tires would have to substitute for strong hearts and well-shod hooves.

The ten motorcycles hit the grassy soil below. They didn’t look damaged as the ropes used to lower them snaked back up to the Xenia. “Right,” Klyuchko said. “Let’s go!”

He and the others – a mixed group of wolverines, wolves like himself, and one shaggy Don Cossack boar – hitched up to the rappelling lines and started their descent. When the last one started down, Klyuchko began his own trip down the rope.

The airship had lowered itself to within twenty meters of the ground, but nevertheless he took care to have his legs bent to cushion himself when he struck the grassy soil. He woofed and rolled, then got up as fast as he could and freed himself from the rope.

All around him the other members of his squad were picking themselves up and checking their gear. Two of them, a pair of brothers, were checking out the bikes. Klyuchko waved up at the Xenia, and the ropes were winched up as the airship began to ascend.

One wolverine stamped up to him. “Yes, Sasha?”

The corporal nodded. “Looks like everything’s good, Viktor. Volodya’s turned his ankle but it’s nothing serious, and – “ his short ears swiveled as the sound of a struggle coupled with laughter reached his ears. “Oh, no.”

“Did you expect anything less, Sasha?” Klyuchko said with a mocking sigh. “Come on, let’s get them separated. Again.”

Two wolverines, brothers by the look of them, were rolling about on the grass as the other soldiers roared with laughter. Sasha shouldered past the others, slipping a short length of leather from his belt. “Right! Knock it off you two!” he punctuated this with two sharp blows of the razor strop to the pair’s muzzles.

The blows had the desired effect. The two rolled apart, sitting up and grasping their noses in pain. “Petya, Misha,” Sasha said sternly as he put his paws on his hips, “You two will be the death of me. The way you two fight all the time I just may have to have a word with your mother.”

The wolverines looked up at the corporal.

After pausing for effect Sasha added, “Again.”

Piotr Karamazov glared at his brother. “He started it this time.”

“Liar!” his brother Mikhail growled. “You keep your filthy paws off my bike.”

“Your bike!?”

“Stop, both of you! Attention!” and both brothers instantly complied as Klyuchko stepped forward. “Now, listen,” and he grabbed an ear in each paw, “we are not on Romanov Island. This is not a holiday camping trip. We are on Tillamooka – in enemy territory, and we have a job to do!” he yanked them by the ears and they went sprawling as the others watched. “I should leave you two here. The savages deserve you both.”

“But, Sergeant – “ Misha started, and snapped back to attention as Klyuchko glared at him.

“Sasha?”

“Right.” The corporal glared at the others and roared, “Move, children! I inspect you and your equipment in ten minutes!” Everyone scattered to get ready.

By the time the ten minutes were up, the team stood ready, their motorcycles lined up behind them, and Klyuchko carefully checked each man. Each was armed with a pistol and a Fedorov Avtomat rifle; their rucksacks contained an iron ration of dried food and a canteen. Sasha was checking each canteen to ensure that each contained water, and not vodka. A simple first aid kit rounded out the equipment for each soldier.

“All right. Gather around,” and Klyuchko unfolded a map. “We are here,” he said, pointing to an area in the deep woods that cloaked the northern half of Tillamook Island. “Our mission is one of reconnaissance – we are to look in order to verify our maps, and move on. If there is anything of military value, we naturally note that as well. Xenia will be waiting for us in fourteen days’ time, here,” and he touched a promontory that jutted out towards the Milhous Strait.

“According to our orders, we drive south from here, ten kilometers. So, mount up and we go. Sasha, put those two characters Petya and Misha out front.”

“As you say, Sergeant.”

The team members hurried to the bikes, and the stillness of the clearing was shattered by the sound of gasoline engines starting up. Sasha turned to the two Karamazov brothers and waved his left paw. The two nodded, set goggles in place and started off.

The others followed after a brief interval.

***

The terrain in the forest wasn’t flat by any stretch of the imagination. The forest was dense, to start with, with plenty of underbrush. Outcroppings of moss-slick rocks, hills and hummocks raised by tree roots made it slow going and the team had to carefully pick their way through the woods. It had started raining as well.

That would actually work to their advantage, Klyuchko reflected. The terrain would keep the team from becoming too widely separated, and would allow the scouts to report back quickly if they spotted something. Petya and Misha might be damned annoying at times, but there was no argument that they were very skilled as scouts. The weather would help to muffle or mask the sound of the bikes’ engines.

The wolf paused, idling the engine down and raising his goggles as a high yipping cry reached his ears. After a few moments another bike approached, this one driven by Dmitri, the boar. The porcine grinned at the wolf and said, “Fun going, hey?”

“Da, a lot of fun.” Klyuchko spat. “Anything?”

“Clearing off to the left, about one kilometer. Petya didn’t see anything special about it.”

“Horosho.” Klyuchko settled his goggles back into place. “Let’s catch up before those two pups end up in Tse-whit-sen.” The pair laughed as they revved the motors and continued bumping over the uneven ground.

When Klyuchko caught up to the rest of the team he found that they had stopped beside a road, their first objective. The road was fairly level but with plenty of curves, and made of rammed earth topped with crushed stones. Telegraph poles marched along one shoulder, with a railroad grade on the other side for a short distance.

The team converged on Klyuchko, offering insights and observations as the sergeant scribbled notes on the map with a short pencil. Lunch consisted of the preserved food in their packs. Finally he waved for quiet and tapped at the map. “We were dropped here,” he remarked, “and this – where road and railroad converge – should put us right here.” He indicated another spot on the map. “The nearest important junction should be five kilometers east of us, at Clancy.” One of the wolves nodded. “There should be a river further south, which we follow to here.”

“What’s there, Viktor?” Sasha asked.

“According to our information, a hydroelectric dam,” Klyuchko replied. “We are to take notes on it before moving on.”

“What sort of notes?” This was Petya.

Misha faked a slap at his ear. “Factories, durok. If they’re making electricity, it must be used for something, nu?” The others nodded.

“Pravilno,” Klyuchko said. “So we keep eyes open, not just ears and noses,” and the others laughed. “Mount up. I want to get there before nightfall. Petya, I want you and Arkady out foraging. Get us something tasty to eat.”

“I’ll take mine medium rare,” Sasha added with a laugh as the motorcycles were started up.

***

Petya Karamazov brought his bike to a halt at the edge of another clearing. This one had a fence made of split wooden rails around it, though. As Arkady, a thin wolf whose clothes seemed to hang off him like a scarecrow, stopped his own MCM-2 the wolverine crept up to the fence.

Off in the distance – maybe 500 meters - a thin smudge of smoke indicated a farmhouse. There were a few smaller buildings, and the green space between the structures and their vantage point was dotted with woolly feral sheep.

“Looks like mutton for dinner,” Arkady observed, licking his lips at the sight of the herd. “One apiece?”

“If we can catch ‘em, sure,” Petya said, “but we have to be quiet.”

Arkady’s response was to set aside his rifle and draw his boot knife. The wolverine drew his own blade and the two made their way over the fence.

The sheep looked at them curiously as the wolverine and the wolf approached. As they drew to within a yard of the closest one, the herd shied and started to scatter at full speed, bleating complaints as they ran. Seeing the one he was trying to get running away spurred Petya into a run and he leaped, grabbing the ewe by one hind leg.

The animal raised a racket as Petya managed to haul himself over the animal’s back, pinning it before dispatching it with a series of thrusts from his knife. Arkady had set off in pursuit of the herd, but now came loping back, swearing as he caught his breath. “Who . . . who the hell knew . . . they could run so fast?” he gasped. His ears flicked and he turned, his tail drooping. “Chyort.”

“Chyort is right,” Petya growled as the sound of a feral dog barking could be heard over the sounds of sheep. “Come on and help me with this!” The pair lugged the bleeding carcass to the fence and struggled to get its dead weight over the fence, dislodging one of the rails.

The barking got louder and the dog came over a rise. It looked as if it had some mastiff blood as it paused, sniffing the air as it looked at the two soldiers. With a growl it started down the rise toward Arkady and Petya.

Arkady drew his Nagant revolver, ignoring Petya’s protests, and shot the animal dead.

The shots echoed, and could there be movement in the distance, by the ranch house?

“Damn you, Arkady! C’mon, let’s get the hell out of here!” The wolverine and the wolf grabbed up the dead sheep and stumbled off into the woods.