blotches of color gave way, first to brown and blue, then to complicated dots and swirls.
As Dean focused his bleary eyes, the dots and swirls revealed themselves as roads and towns and clusters of factories and
oil fields. The vast whiteness that Dean had imagined Siberia to be was nowhere in sight; this did not mean that it did not
exist, only that it lay beyond the horizon of his imagination.
Dean put his hand against the dash as the An-2 began banking sharply. If the Ilyushin he’d taken earlier was old, this aircraft
seemed to date from the very first days of flight. It was a single-engined biplane, with portions of its exterior covered
by fabric rather than metal. Its large—and loud—1,000-horsepower Shveston Ash-621R engine grumbled below Dean’s feet, the
swirl of its propeller at the nose of the plane a haze before his eyes. But the An-2 was in fact a steady, extremely dependable
aircraft, and while its wings harked back to an ancient era they gave the craft amazing stability and maneuverability, factors
not to be taken lightly when hunkering through mountain passes such as those they had taken through the Urals. These wings
also allowed the plane to land on makeshift fields, which it did now, touching down on a dirt strip that seemed too short
and narrow for a game of football. Dust and grit flew in a small tornado as they turned and taxied back; as the prop feathered,
the pilot, who hadn’t spoken a word on the flight, looked expectantly at Dean. Dean took this as a signal that he should get
out; he undid his seat belt and squeezed back into the rear cabin.
Lia was already outside. As Dean landed, the engine whipped back up and the plane shot forward, almost instantly lifting into
the sky.
“So?” he asked Lia as it circled away.
She didn’t answer.
“This is Surgut?” he asked.
“No, we’re a little north of Surgut.”
“How far?”
“Two hundred miles.”
“That’s a little?”
“It is out here.” She stopped, spun around slowly for a moment as if checking her bearings, then took what looked like a small
cell phone from her pants pocket. Unlike most women, she didn’t have a handbag.
“What about the radio in your head?” Dean asked.
He meant the question sarcastically, but she took it seriously. “Doesn’t work everywhere or all the time. Here, we’re out
of range.” She punched some buttons, waiting for a connection. “It’s a satellite phone, Charlie,” she said sarcastically,
as if he had asked. “Yes, it’s very small. Yes, it’s secure.”
Lia shook her head, as if he had said something stupid.
“Hey,” she said into the phone. Whoever was on the other end must have told her something, because she answered by saying,
“Well, kick ass then,” and hung up. She slipped the phone back into her pocket
“All right, come on,” Lia told Dean.
She began walking along a path crusted with thick tire tracks, the sort a tractor would make in mud. The field lay at the
edge of a swamp and, in fact, had drainage ditches nearby; it had obviously been part of the swamp at one time. Lia’s shoes
were low-slung affairs, the sort that might be called sensible on a city street but here were barely up to negotiating the
clumpy dried mud and ruts on the scratch road. Still, she labored on. Dean grabbed her once as she lost her balance; she pulled
away without thanking him, and the next time she slipped he let her fall.
The road curved out from the field through a set of green rushes, past a scummy pond to a larger road. This road wasn’t paved,
but it was wide and flat, or at least flatter than the one they had taken from the field. As they walked along it, a swarm
of bugs flew up so thick that they seemed like rain. Dean swatted and batted them away, but the swarm was thick and persistent;
bugs flew into his eyes and nose and against his mouth. Finally he broke into a trot, running ahead, then twisting and turning
like a kid
As Dean focused his bleary eyes, the dots and swirls revealed themselves as roads and towns and clusters of factories and
oil fields. The vast whiteness that Dean had imagined Siberia to be was nowhere in sight; this did not mean that it did not
exist, only that it lay beyond the horizon of his imagination.
Dean put his hand against the dash as the An-2 began banking sharply. If the Ilyushin he’d taken earlier was old, this aircraft
seemed to date from the very first days of flight. It was a single-engined biplane, with portions of its exterior covered
by fabric rather than metal. Its large—and loud—1,000-horsepower Shveston Ash-621R engine grumbled below Dean’s feet, the
swirl of its propeller at the nose of the plane a haze before his eyes. But the An-2 was in fact a steady, extremely dependable
aircraft, and while its wings harked back to an ancient era they gave the craft amazing stability and maneuverability, factors
not to be taken lightly when hunkering through mountain passes such as those they had taken through the Urals. These wings
also allowed the plane to land on makeshift fields, which it did now, touching down on a dirt strip that seemed too short
and narrow for a game of football. Dust and grit flew in a small tornado as they turned and taxied back; as the prop feathered,
the pilot, who hadn’t spoken a word on the flight, looked expectantly at Dean. Dean took this as a signal that he should get
out; he undid his seat belt and squeezed back into the rear cabin.
Lia was already outside. As Dean landed, the engine whipped back up and the plane shot forward, almost instantly lifting into
the sky.
“So?” he asked Lia as it circled away.
She didn’t answer.
“This is Surgut?” he asked.
“No, we’re a little north of Surgut.”
“How far?”
“Two hundred miles.”
“That’s a little?”
“It is out here.” She stopped, spun around slowly for a moment as if checking her bearings, then took what looked like a small
cell phone from her pants pocket. Unlike most women, she didn’t have a handbag.
“What about the radio in your head?” Dean asked.
He meant the question sarcastically, but she took it seriously. “Doesn’t work everywhere or all the time. Here, we’re out
of range.” She punched some buttons, waiting for a connection. “It’s a satellite phone, Charlie,” she said sarcastically,
as if he had asked. “Yes, it’s very small. Yes, it’s secure.”
Lia shook her head, as if he had said something stupid.
“Hey,” she said into the phone. Whoever was on the other end must have told her something, because she answered by saying,
“Well, kick ass then,” and hung up. She slipped the phone back into her pocket
“All right, come on,” Lia told Dean.
She began walking along a path crusted with thick tire tracks, the sort a tractor would make in mud. The field lay at the
edge of a swamp and, in fact, had drainage ditches nearby; it had obviously been part of the swamp at one time. Lia’s shoes
were low-slung affairs, the sort that might be called sensible on a city street but here were barely up to negotiating the
clumpy dried mud and ruts on the scratch road. Still, she labored on. Dean grabbed her once as she lost her balance; she pulled
away without thanking him, and the next time she slipped he let her fall.
The road curved out from the field through a set of green rushes, past a scummy pond to a larger road. This road wasn’t paved,
but it was wide and flat, or at least flatter than the one they had taken from the field. As they walked along it, a swarm
of bugs flew up so thick that they seemed like rain. Dean swatted and batted them away, but the swarm was thick and persistent;
bugs flew into his eyes and nose and against his mouth. Finally he broke into a trot, running ahead, then twisting and turning
like a kid
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