The Hunters

‘Why don’t you just admit you were wrong?’ they heard Sarah say.

McNutt looked away, annoyed that they weren’t even allowing that he could be right — which he still believed he was, having put on reckless, bravado-induced displays like that himself. But he brightened when he saw the man he had net-gunned reappear outside of the side window. The man was back on his horse with a gap-toothed smile that went from ear to ear, holding his rifle up proudly, angled slightly outward.

‘Wow,’ McNutt breathed.

‘What?’ Jasmine asked.

‘He just saluted me with a Mosin-Nagant M91-30,’ McNutt marveled, seeing three R’s surrounded by crossed stalks stamped on the rifle’s breech. ‘Those were specially modified for Romania and reserved in case of invasion.’

Suddenly, the team was distracted by a voice from outside the window where the white flag flew. It was a commanding, male voice, rough from years of sharp mountain air and tobacco.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded in a Slavonic language.

Everyone in the cab looked to Jasmine.

‘He’s the leader, asking who we are,’ she informed them.

‘In Romanian?’ Cobb wanted to know.

‘No, Russian,’ Jasmine told him.

‘Maybe he recognizes the markings on the train,’ Sarah suggested.

‘Only one way to find out,’ Cobb said. ‘Tell him we are explorers who come in peace.’

‘Tell him we have every intention of upholding the Prime Directive,’ McNutt added.

Jasmine looked at him as she maneuvered past Cobb, back to the window.

‘Star Trek,’ McNutt said. ‘Don’t interfere with indigenous life forms.’

‘Oh great,’ Sarah sighed. ‘Our gunman’s off in fantasyland again. I wish we could beam his ass back to Florida.’

48

Cobb ignored his team’s bickering and focused on the handsome older man in a dark, zip-up jacket, pants, boots, and wool cap.

He rode his horse as if he were born on it.

The man trotted alongside the still slowly moving train in perfect rhythm. Yet as much as he looked the part of an old-guard horseman, Cobb sensed there was something off about him — something modern. The straight teeth he flashed? The hands that didn’t look like they spent much time moving rocks or swinging an axe? His posture in the saddle seemed formal: more trained and drilled than native-born.

Jasmine told the rider what Cobb had asked her to say. The old man listened to the young woman’s fluent Russian words then spoke again.

‘What do you want?’ the man asked in Russian.

Jasmine translated it for the group.

Sarah spoke in their ears. ‘What are you going to tell him, Jack? No truth, half-truth, or whole truth?’

Cobb had been thinking about it. For the first time in awhile he was unsure how to attain the best result.

‘Jack?’ Jasmine urged quietly.

The Russian looked at Cobb expectantly.

‘I’m talking because I want him to hear words,’ Cobb said. ‘Otherwise he’ll think I’m standing here formulating a lie.’

‘Are you?’ Jasmine asked.

‘Considering it,’ Cobb admitted.

Suddenly, a hand fell on Cobb’s shoulder. Dobrev was beside him, the train slowing to a crawl. He said something that Jasmine translated.

‘Andrei wants to tell the man something,’ she said.

Dobrev didn’t wait for Cobb’s approval. Technically, that was his prerogative since rules of the rail put him in charge of the train. Cobb had the manpower to disagree but not the right. So Cobb deferred. Dobrev stuck his head out the window and immediately started talking to the leader of the horsemen. His tone was affable, familiar, even jocular, but still somehow sincere.

Cobb and McNutt both looked at Jasmine.

‘Andrei is telling the man about his life and travels,’ she said. ‘About how he and his family have dreamed of these hills since he was a boy. He says he finally decided to bring his old self and his old train here. The horseman laughed at that, wants to know whether we are vacationers. Dobrev says not exactly and that your description of “explorers” is more accurate. He says that the man’s accent tells him that he, too, is a proud Russian, and that our visit carries a purpose that is important to all loyal Russians as well as our hosts, the Romanians.’

‘Does he say what the purpose is?’ Cobb wanted to know.

That was really the crux of it.

‘Andrei just — what is the football word? Punted?’

‘That’s the word,’ McNutt said.

‘What did Dobrev tell them?’ Cobb asked.

‘That you would explain the purpose, man-to-man, over a glass.’

‘In other words, he bought you time, boss,’ Sarah said.

‘Time and an equal standing,’ Jasmine said. ‘Chief to chief. That’s a big concession to someone who was “not welcome” just a few minutes ago.’

‘Oh,’ said McNutt quietly. ‘This guy’s good.’

Jasmine looked straight at Cobb. ‘Andrei asked the man to come onboard. He declined. He wants us, all of us, to come out. The horseman is telling him to stop the train and we can share a glass of tuica in their village.’ Before anyone could ask, Jasmine explained. ‘It’s a Romanian peasant drink; a brandy made from apples or plums.’

‘I am so in favor of that,’ McNutt blurted.

As the gunman was speaking, Dobrev moved back and started to brake the locomotive without awaiting instructions. Meanwhile, the lead horseman started speaking again.

‘He wants to talk to you,’ Jasmine told Cobb.

Cobb shrugged a silent ‘okay’ and stuck his head back out the train window. While the man spoke, Cobb took a moment to savor the beautiful countryside and the remarkable sight of the surrounding horsemen. It was as if they had now fully been transported to the dawn of the twentieth century.

‘He says, “You are their leader, yes?”’ Jasmine translated.

‘Da,’ Cobb replied.

‘Americanski?‘ the man asked.

‘Da.’

‘Is that really how they refer to us?’ McNutt asked.

Jasmine nodded.

‘Wow. I thought that was a joke,’ he said.

The horseman paused. He was studying Cobb’s face with the wisdom of many years more than Cobb had under his own belt.

The man spoke again. ‘He says, “This is going to be a very interesting talk, is it not?”’ Jasmine translated.

Cobb smiled philosophically, and nodded. ‘Da.’

The Russian leader of the Romanian villagers shrugged in return, spoke once more, and started to turn his horse back to where they came.

‘“A bad peace is better than a good quarrel”,’ Jasmine translated. ‘Old Russian proverb.’

‘They’re all full of them, aren’t they?’ McNutt asked.