Book 3 — The Shadow Line
The Iranian Connection
By early 1944, the German leadership understood that the war was irretrievably lost. Allied and Soviet forces were closing in on Berlin, and the collapse of the Reich was no longer a question of if, but when. In those final months, alongside frantic military withdrawals, a quieter effort unfolded: the evacuation of materials deemed too important to be surrendered, captured, or explained.
One such operation involved a small team—no more than five operatives—tasked with transporting sealed lead coffers containing a substance known only by its internal designation: Aten-Khem. The men traveled under civilian cover, posing as merchants dealing in medical and industrial equipment. Their cargo, listed on manifests as machinery components, was designed to invite minimal scrutiny.
In late 1944, the containers were transported by submarine to Spain. From there, the operation continued aboard a civilian vessel bound for Turkey. By the time the ship reached Istanbul, the team had been reduced to four officers. The German embassy they contacted upon arrival was already operating in a diminished capacity, its authority eroded by diplomatic isolation and the rapidly shifting realities of the war.
It was through the embassy that the team secured a driver from the German Consulate staff. Unknown to them, the man was in fact a British intelligence officer operating under deep cover. He would later state that he was never informed of the true nature of the mission. What he understood was limited: a dangerous overland transit, unusual cargo, and the suspicion that the operation extended beyond this single shipment.
Rather than exposing the team to Allied authorities, the officer chose to accompany them. His reasoning, according to later testimony, was pragmatic. Turning in four German couriers would yield little. Following them, he believed, might expose a broader network—possibly one already established inside Iran.
The journey from Turkey into Iran was perilous. The region was unstable, patrolled by Allied forces and plagued by banditry. Survival depended on counterfeit documentation, falsified cargo manifests, and constant improvisation.
The German officers benefited from two advantages: they did not conform to stereotypical expectations of German appearance, and they were fluent in several regional languages and dialects. They were German nationals and disciplined soldiers, but by this stage of the war they were also realists. Their allegiance, by their own later characterization, was to Germany—not to the regime consuming it.
During one confrontation with bandits, the British officer was gravely wounded by a grenade, losing his left eye. He survived only because the German officers carried him for hours and secured medical aid. In later interviews, he emphasized this moment not as an act of strategy, but of solidarity. To the Germans, he said, he was no longer an asset. He was one of them.
Iran presented its own obstacles. Though nominally neutral at the start of the war, the country had been occupied by British and Soviet forces since 1941. Despite this, the team succeeded in making contact with an Iranian cell and transferring the lead coffers for safekeeping. The British officer was paid as agreed. Early the next morning, shortly after they arrived, the German officers disappeared. No confirmed record of their movements has been found since.
For decades, the episode remained obscure.
In the early 1970s, the BBC conducted a recorded interview with a retired British intelligence officer distinguished by an eye patch. The interview, part of a broader series on wartime intelligence, attracted little attention at the time. The officer described a mission unlike any other in his career—dangerous, prolonged, and ultimately impossible to report. He admitted that he had struggled to write a formal account of it. There had been no clear objective, no measurable outcome, and no documentation to support his experience.
“I had nothing,” he said. “Only the memory.”
The interview passed quietly into the archives.
It resurfaced decades later following a public lecture by Professor Romanovsky, who drew attention to historical patterns of German cultural intelligence—particularly the regime’s long-standing engagement with non-European societies. His remarks prompted journalists to revisit archival material, searching for overlooked reports, interviews, and anomalies.
One such anomaly appeared in an unexpected place.
While completing a Master’s degree in journalism at a London university, a student devoted a chapter of his thesis to the psychological dynamics of veteran interviews. One case study focused on the BBC interview with the retired intelligence officer. The student cross-referenced the officer’s account against available military records and found no corroboration. His interest, however, was not historical accuracy, but narrative structure: memory under stress, the articulation of purposeless risk, and the psychological effects of missions without clear objectives.
The chapter was titled:
“Psychological Development of a Veteran Interview: The Case of the Lead German Coffers.”
The phrase attracted no attention at the time.
Years later, a digital archive search surfaced the thesis through an unlikely convergence of indexed terms: lead, German, coffers. What had once been an academic exercise in interview technique became, retroactively, a fragment of a much larger and still-incomplete picture.
Why the Germans chose Iran remains a matter of interpretation. What is clear is that they sought distance—not merely geographical, but cultural. Iran’s linguistic complexity, social structures, and historical continuity provided a form of insulation that secrecy alone could not. While Allied and Soviet intelligence focused on immediate military outcomes, the Germans had invested decades in understanding cultures the West largely misunderstood.
The calculation was simple, and ruthless:
No one would understand it in time to matter.
BBC Interviews a Secret Intelligence Service Man — Captain Sebastian Bash von Altenberg-Lyle
Program: For Country and King.
Broadcast Subject: Captain Sebastian Bash von Altenberg-Lyle, (Retired).
Journalist: Peter Fairbridge.
Broadcast No: 00075.
Broadcast Date: October 24, 1972.
Broadcast Time: 20:00 hours GMT.
BBC, Studio 6.
After 30 seconds, the label vanishes. A second man said in very clear English.
Man: "Rose, love, does he need to make up? Is the light too bright on him? I do not want his face to look flat."
A young woman enters the frame, wearing a pink mockneck sweater and bright-colored palazzo pants. She is carrying a makeup kit.
Woman: He is fine, Peter.
Peter: Thank you, love.
Turning to the gentleman, Peter adds
Peter: Thank you, Captain.
In the background, a voice is heard.
Background-Man: We are going live in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
Peter: "Good evening. Tonight, For Country and King breaks a silence that has lasted for more than a quarter of a century."
"For the first time in the history of British broadcasting, a former officer of the Secret Intelligence Service has been granted clearance to step out of the shadows. He is a man whose identity was, until this very hour, a matter of national security."
"It is our unprecedented privilege to introduce Captain Sebastian Bash von Altenberg-Lyle, DSO, MC, OBE. For over thirty years, his name has been absent from the history books, yet he served His Majesty within the Secret Intelligence Service during the most perilous years of the war."
"A highly decorated officer, Captain von Altenberg-Lyle was awarded the Distinguished Service Order and the Military Cross for gallantry that—quite literally—helped change the course of the Allied effort. Sebastian, thank you for joining us in Studio 6."
Sebastian: “My mother had many talents. Among them, she was a skilled painter. Her pastels and watercolors are family treasures. I would spend hours in her studio, looking at her paintings and observing how she mixed colors, the way she moved her hands. One day, she asked if I wanted her to teach me. I took her up on the offer. Before long, I had a stand next to hers.”
Peter: “A very special time between the two of you.”
Sebastian: “It was. After I began to develop skills, I started copying her paintings. She told me, in her honeyed voice, that it was flattering—but that I needed to develop my own style.”
Peter: “I’m sure that didn’t stop you.”
Peter spoke with a gentle smile.
Sebastian: “It did not. My father did not concern himself with these matters—Magda was in charge of Bash’s education. That was his position, which he later reconsidered after I began copying just about anything that landed on my table: the family coat of arms, his signature, my mother’s signature. For me, it was a game. One day, my parents were browsing over my worktable and discovered an incomplete banknote. They asked me to stop that perversion immediately.”
Peter: “These skills are what the service was initially interested in, later in life. We will revisit this part a little later. Before we do…”
Peter glances at his notes.
“Let us revisit your university years. It says here that you attended the German University in Prague from 1933 to 1936, for cultivation — a form of character-building. This is what your parents wanted for you. Why was that?”
Sebastian lets an almost imperceptible chuckle escape and continues, a smile on his face.
Sebastian: “I wanted to become a painter — an artiste peintre — and spend my days in my mother’s studio. She was quite content with that arrangement. My father, after retiring from his military post at the Imperial Ministry of War in Vienna, divided his time between his fencing coaching in Prague and the sugar refinery. He wanted me to attend university, to be prepared for civil duties. He pointed out — on numerous occasions — that I could, of course, join the fencing club.”
Peter: “And that you did. It says here — and I quote — ‘Mr. von Altenberg-Lyle, Jr. became a distinguished member of the university fencing club. Wherever he competed, scores of young women admirers followed him. Having the fencing program signed by him — “With love, Sebastian von Altenberg-Lyle” — was worth the price of admission.’ End quote.”
“You were something of a sensation. A bit of a star.”
“What did your parents have to say about that?”
Sebastian: “They did not like it. My mother thought it improper, although I could see her from the piste — she behaved no differently from the young ladies your note mentions. My father had a stronger opinion. Fencing is a martial art, he said, and should not be treated as a spectacle.”
Peter: “It was a good life for you.”
Sebastian: “It was indeed.”
Peter: “You finished your studies in 1936. Two years later, in 1938, Europe — and the world — turned upside down for the Altenbergs. Germany annexed the Sudetenland.”
Peter pauses briefly, then continues.
“What did your family do?”
Entschuldigen Sie, sind Sie Sebastian Bash von Altenberg-Lyle, der Fechter vom Fechtclub der Universität Prag?
Along those lines. I said yes with a smile."
Ich bitte um Entschuldigung, mein Name ist Dr. Ernst von Hohenfels, und ich bin der deutsche Konsul in Istanbul.
"I stood up and, with a polite, gentle bow, introduced myself, and invited him to my table for a Cognac."
Sebastian: “We spoke about many things—mostly fencing, with the occasional question about my travels around the world. Everything could be verified. We spoke very little about politics.”
Peter: “It seems fencing became common ground.”
Sebastian: “Indeed. We agreed to rendezvous the next day and cross the Bosphorus to visit the Fenerbahçe Sports Club. He was eager to measure his Mensur style against my sabre.”
Peter: “Was he a good fencer?”
Sebastian: “He was an artist. A great fighter. The first time we crossed sabres, he was the clear winner. He did not gloat—he understood that I had not given anything away. After I warmed up, the balance shifted. He would take one match, I would take the next. We exchanged tips, observations…”
Peter: “Did any red flags arise based on your finishing school training—warnings that perhaps you were becoming too friendly?”
Peter: “Were they forged documents?”
Sebastian: “Yes, they were. I even replicated an imperfection—very difficult to detect, but unavoidable for a trained bureaucrat—produced by the typewriter used in the chancellery to issue these delicate documents.”
Peter: “At this point in your relationship, did you feel you had passed a watershed?”
Sebastian: “My thoughts were these: I had provided a service to him with discretion. What did he see? Reliability. It was highly probable that Dr. von Hohenfels would now approach me with a task worthy of what he thought of me.”
Peter: “Something more than trust. Did it come?”
Sebastian: “Forty-eight hours later, on his private yacht en route to the Fenerbahçe Sports Club, he latched onto my right arm and walked me to the stern. There, he told me that some sounds are better left behind—I understood what he meant: assume the yacht is bugged. Then he said that four men were arriving from Spain, escorting an important cargo.”
“What can I do for you? He told me he had been looking for a loyal German in Istanbul—someone with my characteristics. He said he knew I was a monarchist, a member of the old guard. I asked if he knew what the mission was called, but he did not know the details—only that they needed a driver who could also safeguard the documentation for safe passage.”
Sebastian paused, took a small sip of water, and continued.
“I told him I could help with the documentation—would that be enough? ‘It won’t,’ he said. ‘The situation is very fluid. You would need to accompany them. It will be dangerous, but it is for the future of Germany—not this Germany.’”
“I told him I was not saying no, but that I was not yet sure. I suggested we spend the afternoon yachting rather than probing one another’s weaknesses, and that the next morning, at breakfast, he could join me on the terrace and we would continue the conversation. He agreed readily, and we spent the afternoon sipping champagne and speaking of our university days—his in Berlin, mine in Prague.”
Peter: “Did he come?”
Sebastian: “He did.”
Peter: “What was your answer?”
Sebastian: “I told him I would help and travel with the couriers, on one condition: I was to receive no recognition. However, I made a small, embarrassing request and asked for his discretion—my coffers were running low, and I required a modest fee.”
Peter: “Did he accept your terms?”
Sebastian: “Gladly. He added that he would take care of my accounts at both clubs and the hotel, along with a handsome stipend. We did not discuss the amount—it would not have been a gentlemanly thing to do.”
Sebastian, lifting his right hand with an almost imperceptible tremor, asked,
Sebastian: “Can I tell them?”
Peter: “Of course.”
Peter answered, and with a gentle gesture, pointed toward the camera.
Peter: “Just look into the lens, and tell them.”
Sebastian looked at the camera, his eye moist with tears.
Sebastian: “Fellows, Germany was wrong.”
The studio fell into a deep silence as the camera slowly pulled back from Sebastian, gently bringing Peter into the frame.
Peter: “On behalf of the BBC, and your country, thank you for your service. It has been an immeasurable pleasure speaking with you today.”
Sebastian nodded, attempting to remain composed, but his lower lip trembled softly. Peter turned to the lens, leaving Sebastian slightly out of focus, and said,
Peter: “Thank you for spending this hour with us today at Studio 6. If you have any comments, please remit them to the address appearing on your screen. Do not forget to join us next Wednesday at the same hour, when we will be interviewing Captain Reginal Churchill, a Navy legend who was pivotal in Operation Dynamo during the evacuation of Dunkirk.”
With a gentle smile, he finished,
Peter: “Good night.”
After a brief moment, a man in the background speaks.
Background-Man: "Cut!"
The camera kept rolling.
Sebastian, noticeably tired, kept his gaze fixed on the floor. Peter approached and knelt in front of him.
Peter: “Thank you for this, Sebastian.”
Sebastian: “Do you think they will see this?”
Peter: “I sure hope so.”
Peter pauses and places his right hand on Sebastian's shoulder gently.
Peter: “Are you sure you’ll be alright on your own? Should I call you a cab, or can I drive you home?”
Sebastian: “Thank you,” Sebastian said quietly, pointing at the right side of the frame. “My daughters are waiting for me in the lobby.”
In the background, technical conversations and the muted sounds of equipment being moved could be heard.
The tape ends.
Aftermath
Every morning at BBC Studio 6, Peter arrived with predictable punctuality. He would walk past Hellen’s desk, his assistant, and collect his daily mail.
“Good morning, Hellen!”
“Good morning, Peter!”
After the brief exchange, Peter would continue into his office, sit at his desk, and begin browsing through the mail as usual—until an envelope stopped him cold.
He held it between his fingers a moment longer than necessary. The faint scent of old paper seemed impossibly alive.
“Hellen,” he said over the intercom, his voice barely hiding excitement.
“Remember the segment we did on Sebastian, the intelligence officer?”
“Should I bring you his file?” she asked, teasing.
“No. Just put me through to his phone, would you love?”
Seconds later, the line clicked.
“Peter? Sebastian is on line 2,” Hellen announced.
Peter lifted the receiver. “Sebastian! Got a letter from Captain Jan Schmitt.”
A low chuckle came through the line. “I’m sure that was not his real name,” Sebastian said. “But… go on.”
Peter read aloud, letting the words roll slowly:
"You were one of us. I hope you know that. Germany was wrong, but not all who fought under her banners were lost to decency. I remember.”
Peter’s eyes widened. “He… he remembers everything. After all these years.”
Sebastian’s voice softened, quieter than the line deserved: “And I have remembered him too.”
For a moment, across miles and decades, the war seemed to shrink—leaving only the men who had survived it, and the code they shared.
Postscript
By Jose Marino Albernas
This work is a piece of fiction.
In preparing it, I listened to many hours of recorded testimony from veterans, including interviews preserved by the Library of Congress Veterans History Project, and studied historical BBC reporting, in order to understand the tone, restraint, and respect with which such lives are properly approached.
We are here because of them.
To the veterans — and to all men and women of decency who, in one way or another, stood in defense of what we hold dear — thank you for your service.
The Recall
It is early September, in a remote town of the Taurus Mountains, Turkey.
In the early morning hours, just before dawn, the air is crisp and carries the moisture of low clouds. A peaceful stillness hangs in the air, like a sweet ether soothing the land. The silence is broken by mountain sparrows, twittering as if joining a morning stretch before taking to the sky.
With the very faint sun rays, from the middle of the town, as if to welcome the sun, a soft, static hum breathes through the hidden metal geometry of the minaret's loudspeakers—a brief mechanical intake of air before the landscape changes. Then, it cuts through the sweet ether.
"Allāhu Akbar..."
The voice is deep, rich, and heavily weighted with a slow, cascading melody. It does not crash into the silence; it pours into it, rippling over the damp stone alleyways and bouncing off the jagged limestone faces of the surrounding Taurus peaks. The sparrows instantly quiet their chattering, yielding the air to the cadence of the chant.
"Allāhu Akbar..."
Inside the stone and stucco houses, the sound slips under doorways and through slightly parted window frames. A faint, amber light flickers to life behind a curtained pane down the hill. A rooster, miles away down the valley, gives a tentative reply. The crier takes a long, rhythmic breath, the microphone catching the crisp mountain chill of his exhalation. He shifts to the next declaration, his voice rising in a mournful, beautiful arc that seems to pull the very crest of the sun over the horizon:
"Ashhadu an lā ilāha illā-llāh..."
As the melody stretches over the sleepy town, the low-hanging clouds begin to blush with a bruised violet and pale gold. The heavy, moist air carries the sound perfectly, vibrating against the pine needles and the cold slate roofs.
But for a group of men, this is not an early morning call. They have been on watch for two weeks, sentinels for an antiterrorist Turkish unit. They are on a hunt. Intelligence and interrogation reports indicate that a commander of the Independent Republic of Urartu Liberation Army (ARKSU) is expected in the area. The team keeps an unblinking, close watch. The ARKSU, a militant group seeking secession of the mutinous region, has a safehouse on the edge of the town.
Inside the observation hut, everything is dark and silent. A faint green light illuminates the face contours of the communication specialist. Outside, comes the gentle, rolling reminder meant only for this specific hour, delivered like a soft hand on a sleeping shoulder:
"As-salātu khayrun minan-nawm... As-salātu khayrun minan-nawm..." Prayer is better than sleep.
"Captain"—a soft whisper, close to the ear of a man sleeping on a rustic bed. As the man's hand approaches the shoulder of Captain Demir, he answers.
"Is he in?"
The men speak in a soft, incredibly quiet tone.
"No, but we have received a message from HQ. Major Arslan is expected to arrive at 0400 hours."
Demir blinked, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes. His face showed an imperceptible sense of disappointment. "This is my operation. What is going on?"
"Okay, anything else?"
"Yes, you are to debrief him on the status of the operation, and are ordered to report to the Ministry of Interior as soon as you arrive in Ankara."
The two men looked into each other's eyes.
"Captain... what is going on?"
Demir exhaled with frustration. "Orders."
The operative tightened his lips and nodded once very gently; no words were required.
The town continued with its quiet pulse. With the final, grounding notes, the minaret's speaker clicked off, leaving a ringing void that was immediately filled by the waking world. The mountain breeze picked up, carrying the faint, earthy scent of woodsmoke from a chimney where a morning pot of Turkish tea was already being set to boil. The day had officially begun for the town.
For nearly four hours, Demir became a shadow in the limestone fractures of the Taurus peaks. To remain invisible, he avoided the dirt tracks entirely, navigating the steep, gravelly goat paths that wound through the juniper brush. His hand-cut wooden stick bit into the dry earth with every step, and by the time the isolated valley opened up before him, a fine, chalky white dust coated his boots and the hems of his trousers.
It was just turning 09:00 AM when he approached the house.
The early morning sun was already sharp and unforgiving. In the field, a farmer—who had been working the soil since long before the dawn prayer—stood wiping the sweat from his forehead with his forearm. In a circular motion, he waved the approaching man toward the farmhouse.
The house had a well-kept garden. The sharp, sweet aroma of seasonal flowers, drawn out by the morning sun, greeted the two men as they walked down a stone path to enter the house.
Inside, the farmer and Demir entered a workshop.
The workshop was functional, packed with tools and canisters filled with bolts and nuts. It smelled of lubricants and fuel, but it was organized. The work table was a rich, dark brown, showing an old turntable sitting under the glow of a lamp; someone had been working on it.
As the farmer approached the work table, he stopped, pressed a concealed wall plank, and the tool shelf opened gently to reveal a hidden compartment. Demir pulled his Walther PPK from an interior jacket pocket, unloaded it, and placed it inside the safe. The movements seemed rehearsed—something these two men had done many times before. There was a natural cadence to it.
From the living room of the house, a female voice broke the silence. "Baklava and tea are ready."
The men looked at each other, smiled, and walked toward the woman's voice.
The baklava was sweet and crispy. Demir could not avoid remembering his grandmother's delicacy, prepared with that exact same mastery. In a room very similar to this, he used to enjoy those little bits of life—gifts.
Then he remembered.
His older brother, Yasin, had been kidnapped by militant terrorists many years ago and forced into becoming a child soldier. Oh, Yasin, Demir lamented silently. After all these years, the wound remained open. He suspected Yasin had fallen in combat against the army long ago. The sweetness of the baklava hurt, but Demir was used to the pain.
"Your transport is ready. It's time."
Demir followed the farmer back to the workshop, where an old East German MZ motorcycle stood in the middle of the room.
"She's full of gas," the farmer said, tapping the vinyl seat. "You can't kill these engines. It will run on iron will." A small chuckle escaped Demir as he took the handlebars with both hands and wheeled the motorcycle outside while the farmer held the door open. Demir looked back into the shop. Standing at the threshold, the woman of the house waved gently in her white apron, wishing him a good trip.
The farmer stayed by the door, watching as Demir walked the motorcycle toward the end of the property, where a small slope met a bare field of naked earth edged by a mud road that was dried hard as rock.
After a gentle kick, the MZ came to life, followed by a small, signature plume of bluish smoke. Demir waved back. The farmer stood by the door, looking into the distance until the motorcycle finally disappeared.
The road to Ankara wound through gentle elevations, rising and falling like an old rocking chair. The route was flanked on both sides by an incredibly arid terrain and interminable farm fields that had already given up their seasonal crops.
Without warning, a squad of army soldiers in camouflage gear appeared, walking in the opposite direction. They held their army-issued FAL rifles, appearing ready to jump into action at a moment's notice. The MZ continued its steady advance until it reached a security checkpoint.
"Documents."
Demir produced his identity papers under the watchful eye of the checkpoint guards.
"Destination?"
"Ankara."
"Purpose?"
"I am visiting relatives."
"Where exactly is this?" the soldier asked, his eyes darting between Demir’s face and the photograph on the document.
"I am visiting a gecekondu... the address is..."
"It's okay. Continue and have a safe trip," the soldier cut in, returning Demir's documents before turning his attention toward the long line of vehicles that was beginning to queue behind the motorcycle.
In Konya, Demir stopped at a shop: Krank Motors – Kargo Dostu Tamir. He was expected.
He wheeled the MZ into the back of the shop, where a mechanic in blue overalls wiped dark grease from his hands. The two men exchanged keys, and the mechanic extracts a black mobile telephone, Ministry issued, and handles it to Demir — It is ready.
Soon after, Demir resumes his journey, to Ankara in an invisible gray Renault 9.
The vicinity of the Ministry of Interior was unusually well protected. Demir could recognize advanced ministry vehicles and vans placed in strategic intersections —This is was not unusual, as an anniversary of a failed attack on the Ministry by the ARKSU was approaching.
"We are taking no chances, Yasin."
As he approached his destination through the narrow streets, a call came in to his mobile.
"Demir."
"Demir, there is change in the schedule. Do not go directly to the building."
"Understood."
"You are expected at Lola's."
"Which entrance?"
"The vineyard gate."
"I'll be there."
A dried gravel road took the Renault 9 from the main highway into Lola's safehouse, in the Sincan District. A light cloud of white dust carries the vehicle as it advances. The road cuts through a well orchestrated apple and pears orchard.
This time, Demir could recognize "perimeter" workers — "The beekeeper is working today" — he notices.
At the end of the road, meeting a farm house, the vehicle is greeted by two magnificent Anatolian Shepherds. They recognize Demir and the encounter softens the face of the warrior.
"Demir!"
Lieutenant General Yılmaz, head of the counter terrorism unit joins the welcoming party. Demir smiles. He is tired.
"You have been traveling all day. How was your trip?"
"Long... uneventful..."
"But you never complain!"
Both men smile.
"What do you think of Arslan?"
"He seems a little dry..."
"But his is great" — General Yılmaz cuts in — I selected him for your restaurant because he is a great chef. He does not improvise, and will follow your instructions to the T."
Lieutenant General Yılmaz was a colorful man. He never broke character. Captain Demir had been working under his command for many years.
The two men walk to the house, followed by the Shepard dogs.
"Dinner will be ready soon. We are going to have visitors later. But now, refresh yourself. We'll talk after supper, eh?"
The men met at he academy where Coronel Yılmaz then, taught a counter terrorism course for field officers. He is now a general. He knows what Captain Demir was made off.
The two men enjoyed dinner on a spacious kitchen table. The Shepherds were there, looking at Demir insistently. They knew some of that rabbit stew could jump in the air anytime. Demir enjoyed the attention.
General Yilmaz did not have to ask questions about the mountain hunt.
"What did the guys called me at the academy?"
"You know!"
"Tell me again; it is only funny when you say it."
"The guys used to say: The Coronel pees holding his dick with his left hand so no one knows he is right handed!"
The men burst into laughter! The kind of laughter is reserved for a kitchen table.
After dinner the men retired to the bibliothèque, a relax room that smelled like books and leather. In the center, two rich and comfortable arm chairs placed on a, humble, yet tasteful kilim, separated by a round table fashioning freshly prepared finest Turkish tea.
Demir seems to wind down after a long day. He cannot remember the last time he sat on a chair like this one.
"Excuse me Demir, I need to give some instructions to ready everything for our visitor."
Demir nods with a smile and continues seeping his tea.
At the threshold, General Yılmaz glances over his shoulder to see Demir submerged in his tea and thoughts — "Only God knows what is in his mind. Let him be."
Yilmaz had been studying the file all day. Demir was perfect for the mission, but, at this very moment he wanted to give him some space.
The Relative
Driven out of Turkish jurisdiction by recent military operations, the terrorist group ARKSU had retreated into neighboring regions, remaining a persistent threat to national security.
In the summer of 2026, the intelligence alliance known as The Five Eyes relayed information to Turkey. Based on field analysis, ARKSU had entered into conversations with Iranian anthropologist dissidents. ARKSU sympathizers had managed to establish a connection between the 2025 events in Istanbul, where a rogue agent from the elite German Bundesamt für Strategische Operationen (BSO) had assaulted an international delegation scheduled to participate in a joint expedition to the Russian Arctic known as the Severnaya Zemlya Expedition. The expedition later failed after suffering a threat that has not been fully disclosed by Moscow.
The Iranian anthropologists believed that the content of the German Coffers, entrusted to secrecy in Iran, months before the end of WWII, could be analyzed by scientists and possibly weaponized, giving an edge to whoever possessed it.
Using specially trained Large Language Models, The Five Eyes determined—within the context of Turkey’s national interests—that a professor from Freie Universität Berlin might have been in contact, in an edge case, with a tribe in Iran possibly related to the German WWII couriers.
Demir went to Berlin to find an Iranian historian who had studied, in his youth, “The Bawervan,” an ancient pre‑Islamic tribe that once existed in the Caspian Sea region. Professor Shakeri, now an academic in Berlin, and a native of Iran, had written an article about the interaction between this group and Europeans.
In his article, Professor Shakeri describes that in the XIV century, an emissary of Marco Polo, on his way back from the East, had saved the son of a powerful tribal leader. To protect him from his assailants, the emissary, and his group, escorted the leader’s son back to his territory, where they became their guest.
The emissary did not know that the robbers were, in fact, enemies of his hosts, and were fighting for control of the lower Caspian Sea region. In retaliation, the enemy tribe invaded the lower region of the Bawervan. When they attempted to reach a peace agreement, the enemy tribe was not interested in payment, but in the Europeans.
The Bawervan were men of honor, and they would defend their guest with their own lives. The battle lasted for days. In the end, the enemy retreated in defeat.
Professor Shakeri concluded, that the bond created by these events sealed a blood alliance between the Bawervan tribe and their newfound brothers. The article also noted that European visitors—particularly German explorers—visited the Bawervan on repeated occasions in the XV, XVI, and XIX centuries.
Armed with Shakeri's research, Demir tracked the lead back to the Kurdistan province of the Islamic Republic of Iran. As the Toyota FJ60, Callahan, ascended the dirt road along the mountainside, the Kurdish village of Dulab came into view. Just as Professor Shakeri had described in Berlin, it clung to the slope—houses crawling upward in a spiral that seemed to have no end.
The terrain around it was unforgiving: arid, dry, and silent. The vehicle moved slowly through narrow gravel streets. On one side, the mountains rose desolate and gray, their sparse vegetation clinging to life. Near the bottom, green trees appeared, contrasting sharply with the monumental rock, as if squeezing every drop of moisture from the earth.
On the opposite side of the road, houses made of pink mud and stones taken from the mountain stood close together, comforting one another in the immensity of solitude.
Through the front window, the village seemed to ask Demir — Where is everybody?
As the road curved, a gentle fork appeared. A white‑haired woman sat peacefully in the shade of a large tree. Demir stopped the car a few meters away, not wanting the dust to bathe her.
“Rojbaş dayê.”
“Xwedê ji te razî be, kurê min,” she replied.
“Where is everyone?”
“Working their gardens on the opposite mountain.”
“I’m looking for Aqilmendtir Baran. Would he be working in his garden?”
“No, Aqilmendtir is rarely here”— she said. “He spends most days at his mother’s farm in Rudbar, though he passed through last week.”
“Bad fortune.”
“You’re not from around here. Are you Armenian?”
“Yes. A distant relative.”
“Good pears in Armenia." Demir smiles politely. "Bring me some when you return. Are you going to see him in Rudbar?”
“I think I might.”
“Xwedê bi diya te re be.”
“Spas, dayê.”
As they said their goodbyes, the old woman covered her right eye with her right hand. Demir liked that.
Night had fallen by the time he reached the dense woodland outside Rudbar. He concealed the vehicle under cut branches a mile from the farmhouse. He darkened his face and moved stealthily through the dense forest toward the property.
He crouched in the low brush at the edge of the woods. The farm was dead quiet. "This isn't right," — Demir thought, noticing the cattle still grazing in the open field instead of secured in the barn.
He forced himself to wait, deciding to monitor the perimeter for an hour before moving in. Ten minutes later, a silent vibration against his chest startled him. His encrypted field phone was ringing. He tapped his earpiece.
“Say nothing,” a woman’s voice whispered in Kurdish. “The farm is compromised. They’re waiting for you, and Baran isn't there. They don't know your identity yet. Meet me tomorrow at noon at Keleshtar Waterfall.”
The line went dead.
Demir froze, holding his breath as the reality set in. Once his heart rate leveled, he switched off the receiver and melted back into the shadows. As he retreated toward his vehicle, his mind raced —"Ankara assured I’d be operating completely dark. Who was she? Where is Baran? And how did they know I was coming?"
Pears From Armenia
Demir arrives at the Keleshtar Waterfall to discover that the warning message came from Helga. She had been following him from Berlin. The only piece of information she had was that the Five Eyes had warned Turkey about an imminent danger. She did not know what it was.
The meeting between Helga and Demir happens at Keleshtar Waterfall, on the foothills of the Western Alborz Mountains. The waterfall lies near a village turned into a ghost town after its entire population moved into the comforts of city life. The place is hardly visited, despite its extraordinary beauty.
The constant roar of the waterfall captivated the warrior before he resumed the scrutiny of every rock, shadow, and tree. In the distance, he saw the silhouette of a person for an instant between the trees. He placed his right hand inside his jacket, gripping his pistol.
As the second visitor approached, Demir looked at his watch, then returned his gaze to the trail leading to the waterfall.
The woman was wearing a green linen shal partially covering her red hair, wrapped around her neck and over her left shoulder. As she approached, she placed her hands in her vest pockets.
Demir felt his face burn and tried to regain composure by thinking about his mission. He removed the safety of his pistol inside his pocket.
The woman stopped about five yards away and looked directly into Demir’s eyes.
“Demir; we finally meet face to face,” she said in Farsi.
“I know who you are,” Demir replied in German, still holding his pistol, angling it slightly in her direction.
“Are you going to kill me now?” Helga answered in German, her eyes flicking toward the pocket where he held the weapon.
Demir scanned her vest. If she carried a weapon, it would be small — two shots, maybe — but enough for someone like Helga to put a round through his skull.
“How did you find me?”
A few days earlier, Helga had followed Demir to the doorsteps of Freie Universität Berlin, where she learned he had a secret meeting with Professor Shakeri. After the encounter, the good professor vanished with his entire family. Helga suspected Demir had a hand in his disappearance.
But why was Demir interested in Professor Shakeri?
Helga poured over Shakeri’s course materials and the academic work of his students. Nothing stood out; he had supervised doctoral and master’s research on well‑known academic subjects sponsored by the institution: Old and Middle Iranian Philosophy, Iranian Religions in History…
What could lie underneath? What was not in plain sight?
Then she turned to Shakeri himself.
Dr. Shakeri had obtained his doctoral degree from the University of Tehran, making important contributions to the analysis of primary textual and historical materials from the antique and late‑antique eras.
“Tradition… lineage… lineage.” Helga tightened her lips, her thoughts echoing in the ordered chambers of her mind. “Lineage.”
She read the very paper young Shakeri had written recounting the Bawervan interaction with Europeans during the Late Middle Ages.
“I just follow your thoughts,” she said.
“And the call last night. How did you find that contact? I set it up myself in Ankara before I left.”
“That was a consequence — a side effect — which helped me find you. In Brussels I discovered a very sloppy spy working for a criminal organization. She was spying on the Northern Alliance. I turned her into a double agent in exchange for not blowing her cover. She opened computer ports for me to infiltrate the system, and I hopped until I accessed your network. When she had no use for me, I planted a hint in the Belgian Federal Police verification process, and she was arrested.”
“Who was waiting for me last night at Baran’s mother?”
“You’re not asking the right question, Demir. No one was.”
Demir moved his index finger into the trigger guard.
“Was Baran there?”
“No. He was taken.”
“Why did you pull me away?”
“I didn’t want you to get sidetracked. You’re chasing shadows, Demir. Ask the question that matters.”
Sometimes twenty seconds feel like twenty minutes. They looked at each other, studying body language and faces. The roar of the waterfall submerged them in its fine humid mist.
“What is your objective?” Demir asked.
“Same as yours… the Aten‑Khem cannot be turned into a weapon.”
Demir released the grip of his pistol and pulled his hand out of his jacket pocket. Helga followed, almost in synchronization.
They both exhaled.
“What now?” Demir said.
“I think I have something. I pulled some videos from the traffic cameras. I think I know where they are.”
Outside the cave, the night was dark as the mouth of a wolf.
Helga and Demir surveilled from the nearby forest, powerless. They were outnumbered by heavily armed captors. Helga carried a suppressed sniper rifle loaded with subsonic rounds, and Demir carried an old Tokarev he had bought on the black market when he entered Iran. They suspected that if they attacked, the captors would deny them their prize by murdering Baran and his mother. That was not an option.
So they waited for an opportunity, hoping it would show itself.
The captors kept a well‑protected perimeter.
With the first light of the new day, Demir woke Helga.
“Something is happening.”
Helga opened her eyes, rubbing her hand across her face and against her eyes.
“What is it?”
“Look at the defense perimeter ring — it’s closing.”
“They’re retreating to the cave?”
Looking in the opposite direction the masked men were moving, they saw a dozen lights, then two dozen, then hundreds of lights closing onto the cave’s entrance.
“The army?” Demir exclaimed.
“No… I cannot believe this… they are villagers.”
The villagers were armed only with flashlights. They were hundreds, perhaps over a thousand. They stopped their procession a few yards from the entrance of the cave. The captors stood between them and the entrance.
“We came for Aqilmendtir and his mother,” a young man’s voice called out.
Helga and Demir used the opportunity to blend into the crowd, advancing toward the front line. It was now or never.
One of the captors fired warning shots with a semiautomatic rifle into the air. The crowd did not slow.
“Hold your fire,” the leader said, raising his right hand to stop his men.
The crowd halted while a man advanced to the front, crossing the imaginary line separating the captors from the massive human wall. He stepped forward.
“We came for Aqilmendtir and his mother.”
“Leave or blood will be shed,” said the leader of the captors.
“Uncover your face,” said the young man. “You have seen mine.”
In an unprecedented move, the leader of the captors removed his mask slowly, thinking, Perhaps I should not do this.
Helga elbowed Demir, as if asking, Do you know him?
Demir shook his head very slowly. “No.” But he looked at the man intensely, searing the image of his face into memory.
“Our business here is not finished,” said the man in command.
“And we cannot return without him. And if you know anything about us, you know it will be impossible.”
“We could kill you all.”
“You might kill me,” he said, pointing at others randomly, “and him, and her — but not all of us. And you will die here… where you stand.”
The leader of the captors dropped his head, staring at the dirt under his boots, and exhaled in frustration. He stayed like that for a moment, then raised his head.
“Your Aqilmendtir does not talk much… is he mute?”
“No,” Baran said from inside the cave.
The leader of the captors laughed. No one else did. Then he kicked the ground.
“Release them.”
One of the captors stepped forward in defiance; after all they had done, they were so close.
“Release them. That’s an order.”
Steps echoed from inside the cave, and Baran and his mother emerged.
“Baran, the wolves killed one of your cows,” said the young man.
Baran and his mother stopped cold before crossing the imaginary border separating them from the captors and the villagers. Baran looked at the leader and extended his hand slowly, showing his bare palm.
The leader understood.
“Pay him.”
His order rippled through his troop like a thunderous earthquake traveling at the speed of light. For an instant, no one moved. Then a masked captor approached Baran with a backpack and began placing banknotes onto Baran’s hand, counting.
“That’s enough and fair,” Baran said.
Baran’s mother had spoken no words during the entire ordeal, but this was not the time to be silent. Turning to the captor leader, she spoke before crossing the line to freedom.
“Baran could never tell you, even if you had taken my eyes out in front of him.”
As Baran and his mother vanished into the multitude, they turned back, tracing their steps to wherever they had come from. Demir and Helga walked alongside them.
As the sun continued its journey to the highest height, Demir turned to look over his shoulder at the captors standing at the entrance of the cave and thought that these men had a moment — and understood that the day did not call for a massacre.
Demir and Helga had no intention of abandoning this human caravan. They also wanted to speak to Baran. As the procession advanced into the wooded area, a soft hand held Demir’s hand. Demir turned in amazement and discovered a familiar face.
“Do not forget my pears, Armenian.”
1944
On April 16, 1945, the Red Army launched its final offensive, breaking through the German defenses at the Seelow Heights. It was a hallmark of Soviet military doctrine to pound enemy positions with thousands of artillery shells and rockets before initiating a ground assault.
Adolf Hitler and his Army General Staff had been working for some time from the depths of an underground fortification, planning and strategizing the defense of the capital of the Third Reich. Hitler remained under the delusion that a formidable Wunderwaffe was on the verge of being produced—one that would defeat the enemy and bring a new dawn to Germany.
Although the bunker could withstand powerful direct impacts, the artillery bombardment rocked the ground, generating small tremors. By April 18, the inhabitants of the underground fortress had become accustomed to the thunderous explosions.
“Bormann, as soon as Speer arrives, send him to the map room,” Hitler said. Abruptly, he turned on his heel and stopped. Martin Bormann, who had been following closely behind, halted so suddenly he nearly collided with him.
“Without delay, Bormann!”
“Zu Befehl, mein Führer.”
Hitler continued toward the map room.
He had become agitated and anxious, realizing that his thousand‑year Reich was reaching a premature end. Albert Speer had risen from Chief Architect to head of the Reich Ministry of Armament and War Production.
On his way to meet the Führer, Speer passed through several security rings, descending interminable concrete staircases and corridors guarded by heavily armed SS soldiers—men who resembled breathing cement statues more than living beings.
As Speer removed his long, stylish leather coat, Bormann approached him.
“The Führer is waiting for you in the map room.” Speer looked at him without expression. “He is very nervous, and I hope you have good news for him.” Then, with a note of despair, Bormann added, “Speer, no one tells me anything… tell me something… please.”
“I will report to the Führer now. Please move aside.”
The bunker was infested with noise: the lethargic boom of bombs, secretaries typing orders furiously, and the occasional burst of laughter—giving the impression of a mental institution rather than an army command center.
“Heil Hitler,” Speer said as he entered the map room. Hitler felt comfortable here, surrounded by maps of former glory days—now anachronistic symbols of the Reich’s decaying final hours.
“Mein Führer, the production of King Tiger is moving ahead, slowly, but—”
“Speer, look at this.” Hitler cut him off, gesturing for Speer to lean over the map. Pointing at several areas with his index finger, he continued:
“If we were able to use tactical Wunderwaffe bombs in these areas, we could stop the advance of the Red Army.” He raised his eyes to meet Speer’s. “Were you able to restart heavy‑water production in the tunnels?”
Speer chose his words carefully.
“Mein Führer, Himmler and the Uranverein were in charge of that mission. I can guarantee mass production once the facility is ready.”
“I do not understand Himmler!” Hitler snapped. “He has been a disappointment to me. Speer, find that clown Fegelein. I am going to skin him alive! He claims he has been in conversations with Himmler!”
“At once, mein Führer,” Speer said, exiting the map room with urgency.
“Fegelein, you little worm! Fegelein! Fegelein!”
Twelve months earlier, on an early morning in April 1944, a beautifully polished black 1939 Großer Mercedes is rushing through the hill roads of Boulaode, Luxembourg. Signs of early spring are starting to appear, although the surrounding hills still retain a clean blanket of white snow. Looking over the town, the church bell towers stand escorted by passive, still columns of steam rising from the red rooftops of city dwellings.
The vehicle is taking its occupants to a converging location for a secret meeting, where participants would attempt to derail a Wunderwaffe project that could decide the fate of Europe, and the world.
Concealed behind a curtain, Admiral Wilhelm Franz Canaris. Flanking him, was Captain Jan Schmitt, selected personally by Admiral Canaris for delicate operations.
As the vehicle approached the meeting chalet, Admiral Canaris lower his eyes to his pants, and noted a small little white fluff. He picked it up delicately, looked at it, and placed it back, in the same place.
Captain Schmitt noticed.
"Is it better to leave things where we find them, Admiral?"
"No, on the contrary. This meeting is not perfect but we are going to try."
The Mercedes rolled to a stop beside the chalet. Inside, the air was warm, carrying the faint scent of pine resin and burning wood. A small group of men stood around a long table, their voices low, their expressions guarded. One of them turned as Canaris entered — a man whose presence altered the room without a word.
Canaris offered a discreet nod. The man returned it with a slight inclination of the head, hands clasped behind his back. His uniform was immaculate, his posture effortless, his gaze sharp enough to cut through the smoke curling from the fireplace. Captain Schmitt recognized him immediately, though he kept his face neutral.
Canaris approached him.
“Herr Generalfeldmarschall,” he said quietly. “Thank you for coming.”
Rommel gave a faint, weary smile — the kind of smile a man gives when he has seen too much and expects to see more.
“I have only a few hours,” Rommel replied. “The Atlantic Wall does not defend itself.”
Canaris gestured toward the table. “Then let us not waste them.”
A second figure stepped forward — younger, bespectacled, carrying a leather folder under his arm. His hair was slightly untidy, as though he had been pulled from a laboratory moments earlier.
“Admiral,” he said, offering a polite nod. “Generalfeldmarschall.”
Rommel studied him. “Professor Heisenberg. I am anxiously awaiting your words.”
Werner Heisenberg placed the folder on the table and opened it with deliberate care. Inside were diagrams, equations, and reactor schematics — the bones of the German atomic program.
Heisenberg cleared his throat.
“The heavy‑water facility in Norway is compromised,” he began. “Production cannot meet the required thresholds. As for the reactor design… carbon is insufficient as a moderator. Heavy water is superior.”
Rommel’s brow tightened. “Meaning...”
Heisenberg adjusted his glasses. “Meaning we will require far more uranium — or plutonium — than previously estimated. Orders of magnitude more. The Wunderwaffe cannot be realized under current conditions.”
Canaris watched him closely. Heisenberg was not lying — but he was not telling the whole truth either. His assessment would withstand scrutiny. It would also stop the bomb.
Rommel exhaled slowly. “Himmler will not accept this.”
“He does not need to,” Heisenberg replied. “The physics will.”
A silence settled over the room.
Canaris leaned forward.
“There is another matter,” he said. “One that cannot be reported to Himmler, nor to Speer.”
Rommel turned his head slightly. “Go on.”
Canaris lowered his voice.
“The Führer knows of a device — a prototype developed by a physicist and an engineer. Crude. Unstable. It does not function reliably. But he believes it will.”
Heisenberg’s eyes narrowed. “The Aten‑Khem.”
Rommel looked sharply at him. “You know of it?”
“I know enough,” Heisenberg said. “Enough to say it should not remain in Europe.”
Canaris nodded. “The Allies have shown no restraint. Their carpet‑bombing is inhumane. If they seize the Aten‑Khem, they will use it without hesitation.”
Rommel’s jaw tightened. “What do you propose?”
Canaris answered without pause.
“It needs to be out of reach. It needs to be taken to a place the rest of the world does not understand — not fully, not properly.”
The crackling of the wood burning in the fireplace filled the silence, a soft, rhythmic sound that seemed to invite Admiral Canaris to continue.
“My intelligence tells me such a place exists,” he said. “Beyond Turkey. I have studied their conclusions. They are solid.”
Rommel shifted slightly, the firelight catching the sharp lines of his profile.
“How do you plan to do that?” he asked. “The Allies control the Mediterranean.”
“We will take the Aten‑Khem by submarine to Spain,” Canaris replied. “From there, by cargo ship to Turkey.”
He turned his head toward Schmitt.
“Captain Schmitt and his team will take it from there to Iran. When found—if found—no one will understand in time to matter.”
Schmitt did not move, but his thumb brushed the edge of his index finger — the small, unconscious habit that surfaced whenever he was thinking deeply. Rommel noticed it, though he said nothing.
Heisenberg looked up from the papers he had been reviewing.
“Iran,” he said quietly. “A place where the physics will be misunderstood for decades.”
Canaris nodded. “Precisely.”
Rommel exhaled slowly, the weight of the decision settling over him like the falling snow outside.
“We need to prevent the Allies from using what Aten‑Khem gives them, they will use it without hesitation.”
Heisenberg closed his folder.
“And if the Führer keeps it,” he said, “he will use it without understanding it.”
Rommel’s eyes hardened. “Let us get back to work gentlemen. This meeting is adjourned.”
On May 2, 1945, the remaining Reich forces were defeated and the battle of Berlin had already ended with the capitulation of all city defenders. The physical landscape displayed an apocalyptic scene of smoldering devastation.
The silhouette of a Soviet soldier starts to define its contours as he approaches a house that had collapsed inward, as though the blast had sucked the walls toward its center. A single beam still burned, crackling softly in the morning air. The soldier stepped over the rubble, boots crunching on plaster and glass.
He bent down and picked up a scrap of paper, folded once, edges singed. He opened it as he walked, eyes scanning the handwriting — elegant, careful, unmistakably personal.
“It is possible that you may one day hear or read things about me.
If that happens, remember only this: I love you, and I remain the same playful boy you met in the gardens of the university.
Believe in that, even if you cannot believe in the world. Werner.”
The soldier exhaled through his nose, not understanding the words, not knowing the name, not caring about the story behind them. He reached the burning beam, held the note to the flame until it caught, then used it to light his cigarette.
He let the paper fall, curling into ash on the ruins of the house.
He walked on.
The Bawervan Manuscripts
The Kafīl of the Bawervan Nation was a man of honor. He ordered a cadre of his bravest men to escort Marco Polo’s emissaries back toward the Silk Road and protect them until they reached the threshold of what is now northern Syria, then known as the Mamluk Frontier.
“You are part of our history now. Our nation will always be your home.”
When the emissaries finally reached Italy, they became a sensation among noble circles. They spoke of a handsome, earthy people who resembled Europeans in appearance but lived closer to the land. Their account of saving their leader’s son from certain death—and everything that followed—captivated the courts of Europe. The Pope himself summoned the emissaries to hear their testimony.
In Avignon, a Prussian scholar employed by the papal court became completely fascinated by the tale. He retained Marco Polo’s chief delegate, the man who had endured that extraordinary passage through the lands of the Bawervan Nation.
That scholar, Friedrich von Barmen, was a dedicated student of Middle Eastern and Mediterranean civilizations. The accounts of “The Bawervan Kingdom” consumed his thoughts.
Through a series of manuscripts, von Barmen documented the chief delegate’s stories. In "La Prima Battaglia", he unintentionally preserved field tactics that would later be studied by military scholars and adopted across European battlefields in later centuries.
“Crossing into the Bawervan territory was not uneventful. We were met by a group of men armed with long bows, swords, shields, and spears. The son of their king explained to this Vanguard that his detachment had been attacked, and as they were going to be defeated and possibly executed, our group intervened decisively, changing the outcome of the confrontation in their favor.
Entering a valley had turned the entire group vulnerable. To protect their prince—and our company—the Vanguard split in half and moved to each flank in a choreography never seen before.
As night approached, we heard the thunderous advance of a cavalry. Their swords glimmered in the fading light. At the prince’s command, the group adopted a squadrone, forming a protective shield between the terrifying charge and the prince and our men. They shouted something that could be translated as "Ginocchio a terra! Ginocchio a terra!" As the enemy veered away from the squadrone’s arrows, the captain cried "Avanti, avanti. Mantieni lo squadrone!"
This was the beginning of a battle that lasted days.”
In von Barmen’s romantic imagination, the Bawervan possessed a grand king, a vast court of knights, armies, and loyal vassals. The stories told by Marco Polo’s emissaries became the stuff of operas and the heart notes of romantic poetry. He obsessed over their social structure, their methods of trade, and their distinct language. In his mind, they inhabited palaces with coffers full of precious stones, attended by servants dressed in the finest silks and adorned with tiaras of gold and silver.
It was in these manuscripts that von Barmen recorded the first European mention of a figure the emissaries called "Aqilmendtir Baran"—a title, not a name, meaning “the one who carries knowledge forward.”
Conrad Weber had studied von Barmen’s written accounts of Marco Polo’s emissaries. Having traveled extensively through Syria, Egypt, and the Near East alongside Ludolph of Sudheim, a German parish priest from Westphalia, he became infatuated with the idea of returning to the region to find von Barmen’s lost kingdom. He was driven as much by the prospect of immense personal wealth as by the fame and recognition of documenting the Bawervan civilization firsthand.
Weber’s expedition to the Bawervan nation near the Caspian Sea, in the first half of the fifteenth century, lacked any theological justification. Its organizers framed the adventure around a purely secular objective: the economic advantages of securing an alliance with a powerful eastern state positioned directly along the Silk Road. It had been barely two hundred years since the Crusades had flooded Italy and the Papal coffers with immense riches while leaving Central Europe in financial ruin.
It was time for the lands of the Holy Roman Empire to claim their own fortune through an alliance with the East.
With the backing of the Teutonic Order and several ducal patrons, Weber departed Styria in the spring of 1413 to begin his journey east, traveling over land and mountains.
Battling extreme weather and roadside robberies, the expedition reached Tabriz—a major Persian trade hub—after crossing the Anatolian plains. Of the fifty men who began the journey, thirty‑five arrived at this intersection. The men were tired, exhausted, and mutinous.
In Tabriz, Weber contacted guides who claimed to know the territory well, promising to lead the expedition to the frontier of the Bawervan Nation. After spending ten days in the city, the expeditionary group resumed its march toward the southern Caspian Sea. Their objective was to cross the rugged Alborz Mountains, considered by locals a natural fortification barrier protecting von Barmen’s kingdom.
Weber’s diary describes the difficulties encountered with vivid realism:
"The next leg of the trip was notoriously difficult for horses and pack animals, as steep trails were frequently turned into rivers of mud by persistent torrential rains."
"Last night we lost three men. Their tents were washed away by a mudslide. I thank the heavens for their quick passing. No sound came from their camp; they must have been sleeping deeply. The idea that, upon opening their eyes, they saw their passed relatives and their Creator comforts me."
"The local guides have proven their worth daily. They are humble, simple men, hardened by work, wars, and the harsh environment of these mountains. They understand and communicate with us in a mixture of Persian and Arabic. In addition to their precise field skills, they can read and write their own language, which surprised and impressed me deeply. Beyond their mastery of the mountains, they are beginning to learn our language quickly. Their appetite for knowledge of our group is as intense as our desire to learn more about them."
By the end of the second week of their travels through the mountain passes, the guides announced they were in the Bawervan forest frontier.
However, Weber had fallen seriously ill, to what his fellow explorers thought was scrofula. This cast a mantle of superstition among his crew, which, in a mutinous burst of terror, attempted to take Weber’s life, trying to burn him alive to eliminate the consumption threat.
The guides intervened and, using their knowledge of German, declared that such an act was impossible in their presence. The guides were outnumbered, and this moved the explorers; because in spite of their adversity, the natives had shown restraint and honor while under danger, and this was foreign to them.
As Weber’s condition continued to deteriorate, his feverish body could not support itself and had to be carried in a makeshift stretcher.
Under these extraordinary new circumstances, the guides decided to stay with the group until they made contact with the Bawervan Vanguard, feeling that now they were responsible for Weber’s life. They requested no additional compensation for this work.
Two days after the assassination attempt on Weber’s life, the expedition made contact with the Bawervan Vanguard responsible for protecting the nation’s edge. Although the mountain guides were free of their contract, they remained with the group, performing beyond all expectation, until the group reached a village.
On arrival, the Bawervan welcomed the explorers hospitably. The medical doctor of the village devoted himself to the care of the Europeans, in particular to Weber’s illness. Weber was treated with steam, herbal vapor, and concoctions. Nothing seemed to work, and Weber’s health continued its unstoppable downturn. His mind would wander in and out of consciousness.
Weber’s condition deteriorated further on the second day at the village, as he remained unconscious. Remarkably, on the third day, Weber was able to stand up, nourish his body, and stand at the window contemplating the outside world.
After regaining his strength, Weber summoned the scribe of the expedition. He did not feel he had the strength to put the pen to work.
He dictated:
"Today I opened my eyes in a modest village. This must be a border town part of a much larger territory. It was surprising to wake up on a floor bed. The mattress is thick and cradles my weak constitution very comfortably."
"The three Persian guides were waiting outside the room I was in until I opened my eyes. They wanted to make sure I could see that they had fulfilled their contract because they carried me unconscious before the territory was found. They had been paid already by our treasurer. Before they left, they prayed to their God for me to have a safe journey and protect my anima."
"Shortly after, I was visited by the doctor of the village accompanied by its leader, an elder man, a middle‑aged man, and a young boy."
"The Bawervan doctor has assured me I am not suffering from scrofula, but from Mountain Cold. He believes it is serious and that my breathing will continue to deteriorate. However, his care has given me a lucidity and clarity of mind I did not have a few days ago. He has prescribed herbal vapors and a rich broth, which could have been based on a corral animal. I have heard of such ailments before and during my travels. Some people recover and some don’t, but I feel stronger today, and I have hope."
"The man who was the leader of the village spoke and pointed at the elder person, addressing him as “Aqilmendtir Baran” — a sort of historian or philosopher, a scribe of stories, someone who spoke and understood different languages, including ancient dialects."
"As I felt strong enough to sit on my mattress, I inquired if these younger men were his children. He said no. He said that they were also Aqilmendtir Baran, and pointing at the middle‑aged man he said something that translates as — he is Aqilmendtir Baran, my replacement — and pointing to the child he said — he is Aqilmendtir Baran, his student.”
"Their leader then said something I could understand as “they are the soldiers of history.” Before leaving the room, he used both hands, gently, signaling that I should now rest."
It had taken the entire day for Weber to dictate his experiences. Before following the leader’s advice, Weber gathered all his strength and, with the help of the scribe, managed to stand on his feet and approach the window of his room.
Outside, a tall waterfall could be seen in the distance. The jump of water was very pronounced, revealing the awesome force of the river that fed it. The waterfall was so distant that the water seemed frozen on its way down.
“We are here,” Weber said and returned to his resting place as night approached.
When morning came, Conrad Weber had died. A fulminant pneumonia had claimed his life. He was buried where the Bawervan buried their dead, same honors, same respect.
From the remaining thirty‑two explorers, only ten returned to the Holy Roman Empire; the scribe was among them. The rest decided to stay and spend the remainder of their lives with the Bawervan.
In Europe, the story of the adventure experienced by Conrad Weber and his men spread like wildfire through the Holy Roman Empire. Sometimes it is difficult to distinguish between history and legend, but it has been said that someone who witnessed the Duchy of Saxony exclaimed after reading the manuscripts—“We shall return.”
Today, there is a headstone in the cemetery of Munich. Its inscription, written in old German and almost imperceptible from the erosion of time, reads:
“An Conrad Weber: Unser Körper stirbt, doch unser Werk überdauert.”
The Zoryas
The S.S. Severnny Polyus pushes steadily through the newly fractured pack ice north of the Franz Josef Land Archipelago. The powerful xenon searchlights mounted on the bridge carve pale corridors through the polar night, their beams diffusing into the drifting snow and low Arctic haze.
From the bow, the world is a shifting geometry of ice and darkness. Massive slabs of white and blue sea ice — some rising two or three meters above the surface — buckle and split under the Polyus’s reinforced hull. The ship forces the broken pieces downward and aside, grinding them into the black water. Behind the icebreaker, a long ribbon of open sea trails in its wake, dark as ink and rimmed with vapor where the frigid air meets the comparatively warmer water. Within minutes, the lead begins to skin over with new ice: first a sheen of grease, then thin nilas spreading like a fragile membrane across the surface.
The Severnny Polyus had been recalled from a training rotation to assist a tanker trapped in heavy ice five hours to the southeast.
As the Polyus pulls away from Franz Josef Land, the islands fade into the darkness behind it — flat‑topped, ghostly white mesas rising from a monolithic plain of ice. Glaciers spill into the frozen sea, merging seamlessly with the pack ice until land and ocean become indistinguishable. In the polar night, the horizon is not a line but an idea.
But the Arctic Ocean does not believe in sleeping men.
Able Seaman Nikolay Kochetkov had spent the first hours of the rotation training the foreign correspondents on board. He was their assigned nastavnik — their instructor — and he took the responsibility seriously. Their lives depended on him.
“You must be attentive. Pay close attention.”
He spoke in English, shaped by a heavy Russian cadence. His face was kind, but the rhythm of his voice carried a different message: mistakes here had consequences.
“The ship will give short blasts. That is the general alarm — telling you to listen.”
He turned his head deliberately, meeting each journalist’s eyes.
“Then you will hear, in Russian: Obshchaya trevoga! Ostavit’ sudno! It means: General Alarm. Abandon Ship.”
The words hit Ms. Hartwell and Ms. Marchand like a blast of Arctic air. Their eyes widened; a small, synchronized gasp escaped them. Richard Hardenburg kept a steady expression — he already understood that this expedition involved real risk.
“What should we do? Run to the decks?” Richard interrupted.
“Mr. Hardenburg,” Kochetkov said, raising a hand, “do not run ahead of steam locomotive. First things first. After the announcement, there will be no English, French, or German translation. There is no time. So…”
He paused, letting the silence settle. Then he pressed his thumb and index finger together to form a circle, lifted both arms like a conductor preparing a choir, and said:
“Repeat after me: Obshchaya trevoga! Ostavit’ sudno!”
The three journalists stared at him, astonished.
“Davay, davay! Repeat: Obshchaya trevoga! Ostavit’ sudno!”
“Obshchaya trevoga! Ostavit’ sudno!” they echoed, awkward and out of sync.
“Again. Say it: Obshchaya trevoga! Ostavit’ sudno!
Davayte! Repeat!”
“Obshchaya trevoga! Ostavit’ sudno!”
This time their voices carried more confidence, their bodies swaying slightly as if following his conducting.
“Again!”
“Obshchaya trevoga! Ostavit’ sudno!”
“I will write it in Russian and English and pin it to that corkboard,” Kochetkov said, pointing to the yellowed board on the wall of the journalists’ quarters.
“Now,” he added, “I will teach you how to put on the immersion suit.”
Activity on the bridge had grown more intense than usual. A military convoy had been spotted ahead, its silhouettes emerging faintly through the drifting snow. The officers stood still for a moment, scanning the short‑range darkness with their binoculars, the blizzard reducing visibility to only a few cables.
A sharp click sounded over the bridge speakers, followed by a voice:
“Captain of the S.S. Severnny Polyus, this is Captain Ivan Basistiy of the Admiral Sergey Gorshkov. Prepare to take position. Welcome to the convoy.”
The transmission ended as abruptly as it began.
“Captain, matching the convoy’s speed,” the first officer reported. “Temperature minus twenty‑five Celsius, blizzard conditions, visibility four cables.” He issued the final instructions to the sailors, guiding the Polyus into formation with the warships ahead.
“Thank you, Sergei,” Captain Makarov said. He lifted the microphone and addressed the ship.
“It is seventeen hundred hours. All personnel not on duty, proceed to the mess hall. Enjoy your meal.”
The mess hall was warm and insulated. It felt like a protective mother, ready to nourish her children after interminable hours hacking through the frigid Arctic night. There were no mechanic overalls or nuclear counters here; the patrons showed the calm uniformity of civilian attire.
“May I join your table?” asked Captain Leonov with a smile, placing a hand on the back of a chair.
“Of course,” responded Dr. Marino, gesturing politely for him to sit. Soon after, Richard arrived.
“Richard,” Leonov greeted with a gentle bow of the head.
“Captain Leonov.”
“Is this the Canadian table?”
“No, no!” Marino and Richard answered at once.
“Professor Ruderburg always comes late from the lab, but we are usually joined by—” Marino glanced to the side. “And Margaret and Clair always come.”
“Ms. Hartwell. Ms. Marchand,” Captain Leonov said, rising slightly from his chair in greeting.
“Captain.”
The table was rectangular, unlike the round tables used by the officers. Both were covered with impeccable linen cloths — white as the Arctic. Women with rosy cheeks and strong arms, mother’s arms, carried out white plates with a large meat patty, barley, and a red‑cabbage salad made with mayonnaise and cucumber pickles. It felt like a Sunday meal.
“Vashi golubtsy so smetanoy, kapitan,” said one of the women with a smile as she placed Captain Leonov’s steaming dish in front of him.
“Spasibo, vkusneye, chem u moyey mamy!” Leonov exclaimed.
“Poshol k chortu!” she replied with a grin, giving his shoulder a gentle slap before walking away.
“That looks great! Can we eat the same?” asked Margaret.
“It must be a secret menu,” Marino added, and everyone laughed.
“Yes!” clarified Captain Leonov. “Do you see those big serving bowls? Those are cabbage rolls — the same as this.” He pointed at his plate. “But she makes these especially for me. These are mine.”
“Captain Leonov,” Clair said, resting her right hand on the edge of the table, fork in hand. “How did you get started in the navy?”
Everyone lifted their eyes from their plates and looked at Leonov. For a moment, time was still, broken only when he spoke.
“In antiquity, the Greeks said…” He paused to wipe his mouth with a cloth serviette. “There are three kinds of people: the living, the dead, and those at sea.”
“Anacharsis…” Margaret Hartwell interjected softly.
“Exactly!” Leonov affirmed, tapping his spoon. “I wanted to be a cosmonaut, but…”
He gathered his thoughts. For a fraction of a second, his mind drifted to the shores of the Aldan River, in the Yakut settlement of Dzhebariki‑Khaya, where his father had been stationed as a Soviet coal engineer. He could see the big steamers transporting goods and passengers. He had fallen in love.
Leonov was about to continue when a sailor burst into the mess hall, scanning the room with urgency. He approached the table and whispered into the captain’s ear. Leonov nodded.
“I apologize. Duty calls. Some other time, perhaps,” he said, rising quickly and leaving with purpose.
"Captain Leonov on the bridge, sir," the first officer announced. Everyone on the bridge turned anxiously toward Leonov as he entered.
"Report," Leonov ordered.
"Captain Leonov, the North Star is not at the expected location," Captain Makarov reported, lowering his binoculars.
"Any emergency vehicles on the ice?"
"No, sir. We think it was never here." the bridge fell silent.
"We have been lured away!" Leonov said.
"Captain Makarov, I am sorry it has come to this. I am relieving you, and taking command as per Northern Fleet and Atomflot conjoined Article Fifty, approved by the Ministry of Defense." Makarov's face went visibly pale, even under the green glow of the bridge instruments.
"Report to your office, and await further orders. Make a general warning announcement" Captain Leonov added, then turned to the first officer. "Unlock the green box and deploy its satellite antenna."
"Aye, captain."
On the Polyus PA, the announcement came fast after a distinct set of chimes: "Vnimanie, vnimanie, this is Kapitan Makarov speaking. This is not a drill. Remain at your stations; those of you off duty, return to your quarters. Review your evacuation schedule. Off."
On the bridge, Leonov addressed the convoy: "This is Captain Anatoly Leonov taking command of Admiral Grigory Potemkin."
"Captain Leonov, Captain Kolchak from Admiral Fyodor Fyodorovich Ushakov is on coms. It is urgent."
"Leonov."
"Captain, we have two aerial vehicles approaching. I do not have them on the schedule."
"What is their position?"
"They are ten kilometers behind and seem to be following the wake."
"They are in range. Engage them, and destroy them. I assume responsibility." Leonov turned to the second officer.
"Second officer, transmit on the Morse lamp: Right standard rudder, steady on course two-seven-zero, stop, relay."
"Right standard rudder, steady on course two-seven-zero, stop, relay. Aye, captain."
On the bridge, all officers stood rigid, binoculars pressed to their faces as they looked into the immensity of the night.
"Second officer, transmit on the Morse lamp: Initiating the Zorya, operational quadrant at seventeen-hundred by forty-five. Stop, relay."
"Initiating the Zorya, operational quadrant at seventeen-hundred by forty-five. Stop, relay. Aye, captain."
"Captain, the entire Arctic region will lose communications!" the first officer pushed back, a sense of alarm ending into his voice.
"The enemy will lose it too, first officer."
Captain Leonov leaned over the green‑cased terminal. Cyrillic text flickered across the screen: Priobretenie… uplink… Zorya priobretena.
He checked his wristwatch.
“Deploying Zorya. Execute.”
The terminal responded at once: Instruction loaded. Executing.
In Valkaria, General Vladimir Antonenko was in charge of the Sword Strike Battalion, the VSSB, head quartered in an undisclosed location in the region of Krakivdonar.
“General, we’ve lost contact with the delivery vehicle and with the Admiral Potemkin,” the operator said, eyes fixed on the monitors.
"A malfunction?"
"No, general." The officer measured his words. "The entire Arctic circle has lost communications."
"How widespread is the problem? Would a solar flare cause this anomaly?"
“Unlikely, sir. A solar flare would affect an entire hemisphere. This blackout is confined to the Arctic.”
"Have we lost the delivery platforms?"
"Not sure, however..." the operative made a pause while examining the screens. He continues "They’re designed to switch to internal navigation. Less reliable — but it’s all we have."
"General, the president is on the line."
"Mr. President."
"I have been informed we've lost contact with the Potemkin..." The line went quiet. Antonenko could hear the president’s anxious breathing — faint, but unmistakable. The success of the mission rested on his shoulders.
“We have, sir,” Antonenko said. “But the mission continues. We are in pursuit.”
“Keep me informed.”
The line went dead.
"General, once communications fail, the delivery platforms will release the autonomous vehicles. They’ll follow the wake to the target."
The bridge of the Admiral Fyodor Fyodorovich Ushakov lay in dim white‑blue lighting. Captain Kolchak stood at the center console, his posture rigid.
“Battle stations,” he ordered.
The Boyevaya Trevoga erupted through the ship — harsh, metallic, relentless — its clanging echoing down steel corridors like a hammer striking the hull.
"Communications"
"We are under Zorya Captain."
"Radar."
"Operational."
" Aerial?"
"Two aerial vehicles, approaching. Four nautical miles."
Kolchak’s jaw tightened. "First officer. Aerial defense."
"Missiles ready... targets acquired."
"Execute."
"Execute. Aye, Captain."
From the deck of the Ushakov, two flaming arrows tore upward into the night almost in perfect synchronization. Their screeching ascent lit the bridge in a sudden orange flare, stretching long shadows across the officers’ faces before vanishing into the dark. Outside, the unnatural glow washed over the Arctic, revealing the torn wound in the ice where the convoy had passed.
Two explosions burst in the sky, twin stars ripping open the blackness.
“We got them—”
“Captain,” the sensor officer called out, “two vehicles on the water — approaching fast, following the wake.”
Binoculars snapped toward the fading light of the explosions, searching the dark channel behind the convoy.
“Open fire with everything we have,” Kolchak ordered.
“Aye, Captain.”
“Full ahead! Full left rudder!”
“Full ahead. Full left rudder, aye, captain.”
The turbines screamed as the Ushakov lunged forward. The bow swung hard to port, the stern dragging behind it, the whole ship pivoting sideways until its hull wedged across the narrow ice channel, blocking it completely.
A shudder ran through the vessel as ice cracked along the starboard plating. Tracer fire rained over the water. Searchlights swept the wake. Then — two explosions. A sonic boom rolled across the Arctic. A fireball rose from the starboard side, shards of burning metal flung into the air.
“Damage report!” Captain Kolchak shouted.
Think of Home
Early mornings in an Arctic Valkarian sea city are quiet and cold in November.
At four in the morning, a gentle vibration on Antonenko’s wristwatch signaled that the hour had arrived. He managed to sit on the edge of the bed. He exhaled involuntarily, his body protesting as he bent forward, sinking his face into both hands while resting his elbows on his knees. He did not want to leave Valeria’s side. Looking over, his eyes stopped on her uncovered shoulder, shimmering under the faint glow of a streetlamp. He knew the warm fragrance of her body.
As he slid slowly off the bed, the moment he left the edge, Valeria woke with a small gasp.
“It is time?”
“Yes.”
“So soon,” she murmured.
They whispered; they did not want to wake Jelena, their golden‑haired eleven‑year‑old daughter. She had school later.
They walked carefully, stepping on the wooden floorboards strategically, avoiding the ones that betrayed them with their out‑of‑tune creaks.
“Do you want me to prepare something for you before you leave?”
He looked at her before answering, wanting to remember her exactly as she was — her untidy hair, her body wrapped in a warm housecoat. This was where he would rather be.
“No,” he said, putting on his military blazer with the rank of General and the emblem of the VSSB on its left shoulder. “My driver is already waiting outside. I have a meeting with the president in thirty minutes.”
“Take this,” Valeria said, placing two small loaves of bread into a paper bag. She was not the kind of woman who failed to look after her family.
“Poppy‑seed rolls?”
“I made them yesterday…”
“But this is going to make me think of home.”
“Is that a bad thing? Volodia, think of home when you make decisions.”
General Antonenko smiled and kissed her cheek; they embraced. Then he noticed Jelena’s violin case.
“How are her violin lessons?”
“She’s learning Vivaldi. She wants to show you so badly.”
They stood there for a moment, in the middle of the room. Nothing else mattered. Then she pushed him gently.
“Go… go.”
“Bye, love,” Antonenko said as he crossed the threshold of their home and stepped outside, where a black SUV waited, half‑hidden in the steam rising from its exhaust.
“Think of home,” Valeria whispered from the door. She did not know if he heard.
The convoy had stopped; the confrontation between the unmanned vessels and the Admiral Fyodor Fyodorovich Ushakov had been witnessed by the Polyus. Its occupants watched, astonished, in whatever way they could.
Margaret, Clair, and Richard huddled by the window, trying to glimpse the wounded Ushakov. They had turned off the lights in their quarters to watch the scene unfold in detail. Thick smoke rose from the dying warship, carried sideways by the blizzard. Long fiery fingers stretched through the drifting snow, their yellow and orange reflections dancing across the vast icy surface of the Arctic.
Scores of indistinguishable human figures moved chaotically on the deck — like a silent black‑and‑white horror film — adding to the apocalyptic scene. The perfectly insulated windows of the Polyus forced them to listen only to their own breathing, quickened by emotion.
“I made a mistake,” Clair said, stepping away from the window, arms crossed in disapproval. “I should never have asked my editor to let me cover this expedition.”
Richard and Margaret looked at her face, illuminated by the glow of the inferno. They remained motionless; perhaps they were all thinking the same.
“…but I wanted to be the Amanpour of France… phew.”
“But you are the French Amanpour,” Richard said, his tone warm with recognition. “You’ve reported on every major European event. There’s no one like you.”
“Thanks, Richard. You’re very kind.” She shook her head. “This expedition isn’t entirely about science. The Moscow incident… then”—she pointed at Richard—“the Istanbul events… there are powerful forces at play.”
“I’m not afraid of death,” Margaret said. “But dying like this, locked in a room, unable to tell the world what’s happening… I feel like a cheat.”
“Because you’re telling the story after the fact? Sanitized?” Richard asked gently. “That’s when you write best — using undertones. I read your pieces on the African conflicts. So tactful, yet so precise.”
“Oh, I like him,” Clair said with a small laugh.
“Who is your role model, Margaret?” Richard asked, a soft smile on his face.
“Oh, so many… but BBC had a journalist — his interviews were legendary — Sir Peter Fairbridge.”
The room relaxed. For a moment, they looked at each other rather than at the Dantean scene unfolding outside.
“What made you take the pen, Richard?” Clair asked.
“I was fascinated by how Marie Colvin reported. So direct, uncompromising.”
They all nodded slowly.
“Is there a Miss Hardenburg?” Clair asked, teasing.
“Yes,” Richard answered with an open‑book smile.
The trio fell silent for a few seconds, then returned to the window.
On the bridge of the Ushakov, the first officer had delivered the casualty report. Through their boots they could feel the shuddering warship, resisting the fate of joining a long list of resting brothers at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean. Captain Kolchak turned his gaze to the second officer.
“Can we keep her afloat?”
“The additional pumps from Admiral Potemkin are working at full capacity. The fire has been extinguished. The situation is critical but contained.”
Kolchak exhaled — We might have a chance, he thought.
“Have the wounded been evacuated to the Potemkin?”
“The most critical, Captain,” the first officer responded.
“My order was to evacuate all wounded!” Kolchak snapped.
“They were treated by the doctor but refused to leave their stations.”
“Okay, okay…” Kolchak made a conscious effort to remain calm. “As long as they do not become a liability… okay.”
“Captain — Captain Leonov on the coms.”
The Zorya had paused.
“Kolchak.” Captain Kolchak spoke sharply as he grabbed the auricular abruptly from the communications specialist.
“Captain, we are ready to commence towing as soon as you are ready.” Leonov’s voice carried across the bridge.
“Thank you, Captain Leonov…”
“Not at all… thank you,” Leonov interrupted, in a tone fitting the moment — difficult to explain. The line remained open a moment longer than needed, then went dead. Kolchak’s lips tightened, and he nodded. Leonov could not see it, but he knew.
“Communications.”
“Open.”
“Radar.”
“Nothing on the radar, Captain.”
“Weapons.”
“Ready.”
Deep in the guts of the Ushakov, some of the sailors prayed to their gods in the language of their mothers. Russia is a big country.
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