The three set off, marching with few breaks for the next two days. But after nightfall on the second day, they cleared the trees, and the view before them opened up. Sun and moon were hidden beneath the horizon, but despite the darkness, Filip could tell something was different. Stars speckled the sky, and a few lights shone in the town below. Beyond that, the darkness was smooth and wide.
“What is that?” Havel whispered.
“I think it’s Lake Baikal,” Filip said.
“It’s enormous.”
The locals called Baikal a sea, and even in the dark, Filip could understand why. But they couldn’t get distracted by the water, no matter how enormous or beautiful it was. The Bolshevik camp lay in the valley below, and if Filip’s group didn’t wedge themselves between the men in Kultuk and the explosives at Baikal Station, the Reds could keep the legionnaires to the west of the lake from ever joining with their brothers in the east.
Filip stepped quietly. The skills he’d learned in the Družina had never left him. So many evenings they would sing Slavic folk songs loudly enough for the Austro-Hungarian troops to hear. Then, under cover of darkness, he’d look for pickets. If they were Austrian or Hungarian, well, it was war, and they were the enemy. Knives, bayonets, or bullets ended the war for the sloppy sentinels. But if the men on outpost duty were Czech or Slovak, Filip would talk to them. Some had attacked him, but most had followed him back to the Russian lines, much like he had followed Kral.
The tsar’s regime had been eager for Slavic defectors but reluctant to encourage democratic ideals. They’d vacillated between allowing an enlarged Družina or keeping any anti-imperial movements quiet and weak. But even when Filip couldn’t promise a chance to fight with the Družina, he could promise an end to life under the thumb of German officers. The camps where the Russians held war prisoners weren’t pleasant, but they were better than the trenches.
The night was dark now, like those early days when the Družina was the eyes and ears of the Russian Army. Unlike Filip’s time on the so-called Eastern Front, the night was also quiet. But this quiet wouldn’t last.
Havel had moved to the right, and Novak to the left. So far, no sentries. Had the Bolsheviks really been that careless? Perhaps they didn’t think anyone could infiltrate through the mountains. Underestimating their opponents would be the Bolsheviks’ undoing. Unconfirmed reports said there were two and a half thousand of them down there, but a surprised enemy was less of a threat.
Filip went to Havel and kept his voice a whisper. “Have you seen anything?”
“No.”
“Keep watching. And listening.”
Filip went to Novak next, with the same results. “Tell the lieutenant,” he told Novak. “I’ll keep watch here.”
Kultuk slept, quiet in its little valley, the Bolsheviks below unaware that legionnaires had marched through the mountains to challenge them in their Baikal stronghold. According to rumor, the Bolsheviks would try to defeat the legion in other ways before they resorted to blowing the tunnels, because destroyed tunnels would hamper the Bolsheviks too, cutting off supplies and communications. They would do it to trap the legion but only if they had no other way of stopping them.
After an hour, Novak returned. “We’re attacking,” he whispered.
The summer sun rose early around Lake Baikal, but it was still dark, still night, and mist blanketed the ground. Filip joined the group of men Novak had led forward, and they dispersed among the buildings below, as silent as ghosts.
Filip and Novak climbed to a roof where they could shoot anyone leaving the nearest barrack. They waited, giving the others time to settle into position. Filip took a few deep breaths. He and four hundred fifty of his brothers were about to attack a camp of several thousand.
A silent signal went round, and then legionnaires threw grenades through the barrack windows. The air exploded with bangs, shouts, and rifle fire.
A handful of men burst from the wooden barracks, and Filip and Novak promptly struck them down. It felt almost cruel, but the Bolsheviks came out armed and shooting, and they planned no mercy for the legion—they meant to trap them, then annihilate or enslave them.
The battle went well at first. The Bolsheviks were sleepy and disorganized. Filip hit his targets before they could spot him. Between shots, he made as much noise as possible, following orders to make it seem like their numbers were larger than they really were. But no amount of noise could change the fact that the legion was vastly outnumbered. More and more of the Bolsheviks joined the fight. Shots flew toward him, and some of his brothers fell. There were simply too many Bolsheviks.
“Fall back!” the order came.
Filip slid his rifle across his back, and he and Novak scrambled from the rooftop. A splinter dug into his skin, but he ignored it. He was more concerned about larger things—like bullets—puncturing his skin.
The sun still hadn’t made an appearance, and darkness would allow them to withdraw unseen. They had a long fighting retreat ahead of them. Most of the Bolsheviks were in Kultuk, so Filip’s group just needed to slow them down long enough for Anton’s group to seize or destroy the explosives stored at Baikal Station.
Of the thirty-nine rail tunnels along the southern end of Lake Baikal, thirty-eight lay between Kultuk and Baikal Station on the Angara River, so there were plenty of places to make a stand. Fighting retreats could be pulled off with no casualties if everything went perfectly. But nothing was perfect in battle. A few wrong moves and fighting retreats could turn into massacres.
***
Anton ran. His group had left the mountains a few miles from Baikal Station, and now they rushed along the tracks, through tunnels lined with hollowed-out crevices prepared for demolition. They’d left most of their equipment in the hills, but he still carried a rifle and ammunition. The pace was brutal. With only fifty men, they couldn’t afford to be surrounded, couldn’t risk an engagement before they reached Baikal Station. They had to be quick.
He pushed aside thoughts of Veronika, pale and weary but content. And of Marek, so small and so perfect. If he let his family distract him, he might never see them again.
As they got closer, prudence dictated a slight letup in their speed. Their most recent intelligence on Baikal Station was several days old, so they didn’t know how many opponents they’d find, but they expected formidable defenses.
“Spread out and find that train!” came the order.
Anton stayed near another sapper, a round-cheeked boy from Pilsen. Rifle fire sounded in the distance, and small-arms fire joined it nearby, between them and the lake. A flash appeared ahead. Anton aimed but didn’t shoot—what if it was one of his brothers? Another flash, but that one was friendly, he was sure.
“I expected more of a fight,” the man from Pilsen said.
“Me too.” Anton held his rifle close, still expecting an attack, but only a handful of Bolsheviks defended Baikal Station. Where had all the Reds gone?
***
Dalek had spent the last several days sending bullets toward the enemy rather than tapping out dots and dashes to his brothers, and the entire time, he’d questioned the wisdom of his decision. He could have remained in relative safety in the rear with the gear, but this had seemed important.
He handed over another belt of machine-gun ammo. His group of seven had taken position beneath an overhanging cliff and behind a timber fence meant to stop rockslides. Thus far, no one had dislodged them from their spot, but it seemed the Bolsheviks had finally gotten fed up with a group of seven Czechs and Slovaks pestering their line with a single machine gun. They’d held off numerous probes and a few determined assaults over the past days, but now most of the Bolsheviks from Baikal Station were attacking.
Vojta poured water over the machine gun to cool the barrel. Even in the dark, perspiration was visible on his face.