The End Of The Beginning

I knew Zaya would not give up without looking for me.  I would not head west, to China.  North or south would keep me in the mountains and away from anyone who could help.  The most logical direction for me to go would be east, back the way we came.  I knew there was a Mongolian military base in Sirgali, about 30 kilometers in that direction.

 

But Zaya had a head start on me.  He could easily hike back on the same trail we came on.  I was on the other side of the mountain and would have to carefully make my way down the slope until I found a trail.  By then, Zaya would have had time to get in touch with his people and have the roads and trails covered.

 

So I did what he wouldn’t expect me to do.  I went north.  I was 60 kilometers from the Russian border.  Once I made it down to the network of trails, it would be a fairly simple hike.  And, I had memorized many of the locations where we had cached supplies.  We drove past Hoton Lake on our way here.  Once I made it to the northern edge of the lake, I would find the trail leading to the nearest cache site.

 

It was mid-afternoon when I reached the lake.  From there, it was a simple matter of following the trail to the north.  By the time the sun went down, I was pulling the tarp off of the cache.  That night I slept in a tent, in a warm sleeping bag.  I traded the old AK-47 for a brand new one.  The backpack I retrieved had plenty of ammunition, a good knife, and a pistol.  Most importantly, there was food and clean water.

 

By then I hadn’t eaten in 36 hours.  I tore into the packages of crackers and dried meat.  The air mattress I slept on felt like a bed in the presidential suite of a fine hotel.

 

It took three days for me to walk to the border.  I found another cache along the way and did not have to worry about being hungry.  I even took enough time to do some hunting.  When you are in places where humans rarely go, the animals tend to be abundant, and not afraid of humans.  The rabbits and squirrels were easy to hunt.

 

As I crossed the border and made my way to the dirt road, I knew the end of the journey was at hand.  The city of Kosh-Agach was another day’s walk to the north, and there were farms and ranches along the road. 

 

When I knocked on the farmhouse door, I could tell the man was suspicious.  I had no ID, military or otherwise.  I was wearing civilian clothes.  I didn’t blame him for questioning my story, that I was a Russian soldier and had gotten separated from my unit.

 

But he got the idea.  He could either drive me to Kosh-Agach as I had asked, or I would take his truck at gunpoint.  The trip to the city passed in silence.  He took me to the police station, I figured that was as good a place to go as any.  A phone call to Colonel Kashuba would straighten things out. 

 

I wanted to pay the man for disrupting his day, but I had no money.  I unloaded the pistol and the rifle, and handed them and the knife to the man.  I wouldn’t need them, and I didn’t see a good way to explain them to the police.  I thanked the man and said I hoped the weapons were worth his time and the gas.

 

Two hours later, a helicopter touched down in a field near the police station.  My ordeal was over.  Despite the noise of the engine and the rotors, I slept most of the way back to Ulaanbaatar.

 

Kashuba gave me time to eat, then began the third degree.  That was okay with me.  I was as eager to find Zaya as he was.  Emil’s death was still a raw wound.  I wanted to kill Zaya myself, but I would be satisfied no matter who pulled the trigger. 

 

I told the Colonel everything I could remember.  Then I spent some time studying maps.  Trying to narrow down the location of the house I had been kept in, and the building where I slept before the hike.  We could not be sure either would lead us to Zaya.  However, that was all we had to go on.

 

I wasn’t happy when Kashuba told me we would have to turn the operation over to the Mongolian police.  But I understood.  Relationships between Mongolian civilians and the Soviet military had always been tenuous.  Having Soviet soldiers kick down doors and drag civilians off would not go over well.

 

The first part of catching Zaya, finding the house and the building, was up to me.  We would let the locals handle the rest.

 

Identifying the building where I had slept just prior to the hike was easy.  I was wide awake and my captors did not blindfold me as we drove into the mountains.  After a month of me playing the cooperative prisoner, they had gotten sloppy.  I memorized road signs and landmarks as we drove past.  I was able to pick out the building from a series of aerial photographs. 

 

Finding the house where I was held in the basement took a little longer.  I had an image in my head of the peak of Choybalsan Uul.  That created a cone shaped area on the map where the house had to be.  It was somewhere in the town of Gachuurt, 20 kilometers east of Ulaanbaatar.  But there were thousands of houses.  Probably one-fourth of them were built with the same red brick as the one I remembered.  And half were surrounded by a similar wooden fence.

 

We knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to drive around looking.  It would be obvious I am not a Mongolian, and the men we hunted had to know we were looking for them.  Instead, Kashuba and I hiked to the peak of the mountain just east of Gachuurt.  We were 200 meters above the town.  The 70mm Maksutov telescope made it easy to see the buildings below, as if I was standing in front of them.  However, I was looking for the needle in a haystack.  After a couple of hours, my eyes were strained, and I was having trouble focusing.  It was late in the day. We decided to set up camp and start again in the morning.

 

When you wake up in a warm sleeping bag, and it is cold outside, it is normal to resist getting up.  Excuses for sleeping late were pouring through my head.  Then, a memory came unstuck from somewhere in my brain.  I practically flew out of the tent. 

 

I remembered, just as I passed out, the sound of the van’s wheels against the road changed pitch.  Most of the roads in the area were gravel or dirt.  There were a few concrete bridges in the area.  As I passed out, I heard the resonant sound a tire makes when there is air under the road instead of dirt.

 

After marking all of the bridges on the map, I began scanning the houses to the east of each one.  It took an hour, then I struck paydirt.  When I saw the house, I was confident it was the one.  It had the right kind of bricks and roof, the right number and position of windows and doors, and the same broken slats in the wooden fence.  The house across the street was on a slope and looked like it had a basement.

 

I circled the road on the map.  We packed up camp and headed down the mountain.

 

That night, we had a local policeman drive an unmarked car while I crouched down in the back seat.  When we passed the house, I was certain it was the right place.  Everything looked just like I remembered.  My instincts told me I had been on that road before.

 

The locals began surveillance.  The picture the policeman showed me was definitely Zaya.  I was surprised he had returned to the house.  After I outsmarted him and got away from him on the mountain, I didn’t expect him to underestimate me a second time.  That was a mistake, and he would pay for it.

 

The next morning the police staged simultaneous raids on the house in Gachuurt and the building to the west.  Kashuba and I sat in a UAZ a few blocks from the Gachuurt house and listened to the chatter on the police band radio.  The house was empty.  By the time we got there, they had found Zaya’s footsteps.  He was headed for the same mountain Kashuba and I had been on, a few days ago.

 

It was obvious Zaya had been tipped off.  It would have only taken one informant in the local police force.  The unpopularity of the Soviets in Mongolia was not restricted to the rebels.

 

When Kashuba and I stood behind the house, we didn’t even need to discuss what was going to happen next.  He saw me stow my backpack into the UAZ before we left.  He wanted Zaya dead as much as I did.  He looked at me and said, “No reason for you to waste any time.”

 

I put on my hiking boots and strapped on the pack.  Kashuba said, “I’ll arrange for a helicopter flyover every two hours during daylight.  You keep the crew posted and if we can catch him out in the open, he will die quickly.  Otherwise, I am certain it is a matter of time before he dies at your hands.”

 

He paused and smiled. “In that event, I’d like to remind you, it would make my life a lot simpler if his body has all ten fingers attached.”

 

It was two kilometers to the base of the mountain, and the same distance up the winding trail to the peak.  Zaya had a two or three-hour lead on me.  I was near the top when the helicopter made the first flyover.  I didn’t have any particular news for them.  Other than guessing how far behind I was by the look of his footprints. 

 

The pressure of a boot will make snow melt a little bit.  It refreezes in a matter of seconds.  A new footprint tends to be shiny.  As the wind blows, snow, dust, and bits of organic matter will settle in the print.  I could tell by the look of the prints, I wasn’t close yet.  It didn’t matter.  I was not planning on sleeping or stopping until Zaya was dead.

 

During the day, I was only able to keep pace with him.  That surprised me.  I had longer legs, less body mass, and the endurance of a marathon runner.  It must have been his adrenalin level.  He probably knew I was chasing him.  He had certainly heard the helicopter and knew we were looking.  Things changed after dark.  I had military grade night vision binoculars strapped to my helmet.  My pace did not slow very much.  Zaya was navigating by moonlight.  I could tell by the freshness of his footprints, I was gaining on him.

 

The sun came up, and I studied the outline of his boot.  I estimated I was no more than 20 minutes behind.  The helicopter made its pass and I let them know where I thought he should be.  They flew over, but did not see him.  That was to be expected.  Zaya would hear the helicopter long before they could see him, he would have plenty of time to hide. 

 

I came over a crest and could see the valley below.  I got out my binoculars and scanned ahead.  Across the valley, the trail began winding through a low gap in the mountain.  There were some spots where the trees could not get a footing in the rocks and the trail was visible. 

 

I had spent enough time walking behind him.  I couldn’t see his face with the binoculars, but when I saw the man on the trail, I knew it was Zaya.

 

I had been walking at a good pace for almost 24 hours.  I had only stopped for a few short breaks, to eat, drink, and perform bodily functions.  When I saw Zaya, it was like someone poured two pots of coffee directly into my veins. 

 

I stripped off my heavy clothes, put on running shoes, and left my pack on the ground with the clothes.  I put on my vest, with my water bottle, knife and pistol.  I strapped the AK-47 on my back, and began running down the trail.

 

By the time I reached the gap, I knew I was just a few minutes behind.  I would probably shoot him from some distance, but I was hoping that somehow I would catch up to him and kill him with my hands.

 

That though got put on hold when I heard the automobile engine crank up.  I ran up to a ledge and scanned below me, toward the sound of the moving vehicle.  Through the trees, I caught a glimpse of a four-wheel drive vehicle, heading down a dirt road.  Catching Zaya now would depend on the helicopter.

 

The twenty minutes until the next helicopter flyover seemed like a decade.  By then, I had run down to the road, and found a small clearing that was flat enough for the aircraft to land.  They picked me up, and we began tracking down the road.

 

Zaya had a 30-minute head start, but it was not going to be a fair fight.  Had he been in a Formula One race car on a perfectly straight road, he still would not have been able to outrun the helicopter.  When we caught up, the vehicle had made it to the end of the mountain trail and was on a gravel road.  The plume of dust being kicked up by the tires indicated he was going as fast as he could.  Compared to the helicopter, he might as well have been standing still.

 

The gunner unleashed a brief burst of bullets from the Gatling gun.  They made a line through the middle of the vehicle.  It veered off the road to the right, rolled over several times, and came to a stop.  If anyone survived the hail of bullets and the crash, they would be in a world of hurt.

 

One look inside the vehicle and it was obvious no one was alive.  The bullets had shredded the interior and created shrapnel that sprayed everywhere.  Then the four occupants were repeatedly bashed against each other and the interior of the vehicle as it rolled over.  I’d seen a lot of death and destruction.  This was as bad as it gets.

 

When we pulled Zaya out, I felt tremendous relief.  A sense of closure regarding Emil.  I felt the tension ebb out of my body.  When we pulled out the woman, presumably his wife, the mood became somber.  When we pulled out the two small children, no one said a word.

 

That sort of thing is not supposed to happen in war.  But it does.  I had seen dead children in Afghanistan.  But this was the first time I was involved.  I felt responsible.  I dropped to my knees and vomited.

 

There wasn’t much talk on the ride back to Ulaanbaatar.  I had plenty of time to think.  The images of the children’s crushed bodies would not leave my head.  Every bad thing I had seen since I left Alaska, every violent act I had committed, was rushing through my head.

 

I decided I was done.  I’d had enough killing for one lifetime.

 

That is what I told Colonel Kashuba after the debriefing.  I had nine months left on my current enlistment.  I explained how I felt, and ended with “I’ll complete my tour and spend the entire time on KP or midnight guard duty if you want.  But I’m done killing.  I won’t be any use to you in the field.”

 

He thought for a moment, then spoke.  “You’re not the first soldier I’ve seen get burned out.  I am not surprised.  You have done a lot of killing, and you’ve watched too many good men die.  Despite the fact that you insist on behaving like an American at all times, you have been an excellent soldier.  I think you are right.  It is time for you to move on.”  He paused again.  “So, what are you going to do next?”

 

I said, “I have no idea.  What do you think I should do?”

 

“You are an American.  Why don’t you go home?”

 

I couldn’t think of an argument against that. “I don’t know, I guess I’ll go home someday.  Right now, I just don’t know what I want.”

 

Kashuba said, “You need to talk to Lieutenant Colonel Shirinova.  She has more expertise in these matters than I do.”

 

I had a session scheduled with her that evening.  I knew that leaving the Army would also end my relationship with Irina.  When we spoke, I realized the relationship was going to end anyway, and sooner than that.

 

She listened to my story and we talked about what I should do after I leave the Army.  Her main point was, I didn’t need to make any decisions right away.  I had saved almost my entire salary, meager as it was, as a private in the Soviet Army.  That would be enough for an inexpensive apartment, food, and electricity for a year or so.

 

“Colonel Kashuba is right.  You are an American and that is ultimately where you belong.  I think you still have unresolved feelings about your uncle’s death.  Coming to Siberia was like running away from home.  You need more time to come to terms with your feelings of guilt.  You will know when it happens.  Then, you will go home.”

 

“I will tell you again, even though I don’t expect you to listen any time soon.  It is not your fault that Eastwood died.  The last thing he would have wanted would be for you to feel guilty about something you had no control over.”

 

That was the gist of the conversation we had, over and over.  I assumed she was right, but the information simply never processed in my head.  I did not know how to make that work.

 

Then she hit me with her news.

 

“In a way, I am glad you are ready to leave the Army.  It makes what I have to say a lot easier.  Evan, I am resigning my commission and leaving the Army as well.  I have reconciled with my fiancé and we are going to get married.”

 

“You must realize, I am 35 years old and I am running out of time to have children.  My father is not in good health and I want him to enjoy his grandchildren at least for a little while.”

 

“I want you to know, I do love you.  I would not be intimate with any man without strong feelings.  But you are not the fatherly type.  You do not possess those instincts.  I admit, women are attracted to men like you, those who live on the edge, without fear.  You will never have trouble finding a girlfriend, if you want one.  But my fiancé wants children just like I do.  You are not meant for that kind of life.”

 

So it ended like that.  We had one last passion filled evening.  I didn’t want it to end.  But afterwards, I felt a sense of completion.  We were ending the relationship on good terms.  There were no hard feelings.  It was the right time for each of us to move on.

 

We decided to make that night our final goodbye.  She gave me some of the albums from her record collection, the ones I liked the most.  I had nothing to give her but tears, a hug, and one final kiss.

 

A few days later, I hiked up to the ridge behind the barracks, and watched the airplane take off.  The one that carried Irina out of my life, back to Khabarovsk, to the arms of her fiancé.

 

The remaining months of my military service went by without any bloodshed or unusual twists.  I peeled potatoes and stood guard when I wasn’t teaching wilderness survival classes.

 

When it was my time to leave, Colonel Kashuba drove me to the airport.  He shook my hand, and gave me an envelope.

 

“Inside you’ll find my home address and telephone number.  If you can’t get in touch with me through the Army, you can always reach me that way.”

 

“I’ve come to think of you as a son.  If there is ever anything I can do for you, I will make it happen.”

 

“Also, there is a one-year Soviet Railway pass.  I still think you should go back to America.  I know you are not ready for that.  So, I recommend you see the best Russia has to offer.  You are a young man with unlimited potential.  Go out and have some fun.  But please be careful.  You have a way of causing mayhem for the people around you.”

 

I saluted Colonel Kashuba for the last time, and walked into the terminal.

 

The airplane that took me from Ulaanbaatar seemed like a slow elevator to me, after so many flights in the Il-76.  I assumed the feeling in the pit of my stomach was anxiety over the future. 

 

As the plane descended, and approached the Moscow airport, I marveled at the size of the city.  I had memories of San Diego and Anchorage, but they were tiny compared to what I was seeing.  So many lights and buildings crowded together.  So many people.  I realized I had no idea what I was in for.