That left one option: destroy the explosives before the Bolsheviks used them to trap the legion.
Anton put a fuse in place.
The other sapper smashed his finger and swore. “That gunfire is close. I hate to think of how many hits our men are taking.”
Anton pushed thoughts of the other groups aside. Regardless of anything else, he had to do this correctly. If he messed up, every legionnaire west of Baikal was doomed, including his family and his friends. “Ready?”
“Almost . . . all right, I’m set.”
Anton lit the fuse, and they sprinted for the hillside. They flung themselves into the dirt and waited and prayed. A few heartbeats passed, and then an enormous explosion tore the air.
***
A sound like a roar boomed around the sharp mountainsides and cracked across the water, then the ground shook beneath Filip’s feet. In the light of the rising sun, the surface of the lake convulsed into enormous waves. Water spewed through the air. Rocks tumbled down mountain slopes.
A few thousand Bolsheviks had been pushing them back, away from Kultuk and toward Baikal Station, but with the explosion, the pop of small arms quieted. Filip pulled a wounded Czech into the shelter of a tree and tied up the bullet hole in the man’s arm. What would the Bolsheviks do now?
In the distance, a column of smoke, dark and thick, rose in the air and spread like a thundercloud.
Daybreak was supposed to be gentle, gradual. But that explosion, shrieking through the valley as the sun peeked over the mountain, had seemed to signal the end of the world, and echoes of sermons about brimstone and a fiery judgment day swirled through Filip’s head.
It wasn’t the end of the world, but it did seem to signal an end to the battle because the Bolsheviks realized there were more Czechs along the track, so they pulled back.
They wouldn’t give up. They’d just consolidate and prepare a new trap. But for now, a bit of breathing space was enough. He’d see those Bolsheviks again, but perhaps not until he’d had a few hours of sleep and had gathered a full allotment of ammunition.
***
Dalek and the machine gun crew held their position until the reinforcements led by Gajda reached them. Gajda assigned a group to stay and repair the rail so the legion’s armored train could advance, but he urged the rest of the men forward.
“What should we do?” Vojta asked.
“Bring that machine gun and come. We’ve got to keep moving while they’re on the run.”
Dalek and the others obeyed, driven by duty and by curiosity—they’d felt, seen, and heard the explosion, and they wanted to witness the results up close. Dalek had been at war since 1914, but he’d never been that close to something that powerful. What had the explosion done to those nearer the blast?
When they reached the open scar where the train depot had once stood, Dalek bent over an unmoving body in legion uniform. “Brother?”
The man groaned and coughed. Good. He wasn’t dead. “My head.” He grabbed his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. Then he blinked and looked around. “I must have been thrown. I wasn’t in this spot when I felt the explosion.”
The man’s face wasn’t familiar, but maybe he had information. “Did you have any casualties?” Dalek did not want to have to tell Veronika or Nadia—or both—that they were now widows.
“The station was mostly abandoned. But that explosion . . .”
Dalek approached the center of the smoldering wreckage, where a red gash on the earth still emitted heat. Farther out, blasted-over trees and flattened wood marked what had been the train station. He didn’t see any bodies, but was that because everyone had gotten away or because the blast had been powerful enough to make men disappear completely?
“Pokorný, come on,” Vojta called. “There are more Bolsheviks ahead of us.”
He almost shouted that he had to find his friends first, but if Filip or Anton were dead, it was already too late. And if they weren’t, they might be farther along the tracks.
Rifle fire sounded, and they dropped to the ground. Not all the Reds had retreated. Dalek, Vojta, and other legionnaires returned fire, and the remaining Bolsheviks either threw down their weapons in surrender or fled. More small arms sounded in the distance.
Dalek and the others advanced past the flattened station. A line of prisoners marched the other way, toward Irkutsk. A lone legionnaire from the Seventh Regiment guarded them.
Vojta eyed the prisoners with suspicion. “Should we stay and defend the station?”
“No. They must have surrendered to someone up ahead, and I imagine our brothers there need our help more than anyone back here.” Dalek scanned the area again and kicked a wheel that had become dislodged from its train but had somehow survived the blast. Then he left the devastation behind, hoping to find his friends.
He caught up to Anton an hour later.
“What are you doing here, Dalek?” Bruises and cuts lined his face, but Anton wore a smile.