Pools of water on the floor mimicked the wild movements of the sea, sweeping from one side to the other. The prisoners weren’t pushing forward, remaining safe behind the door. No doubt they were finding it difficult, among their cutthroat team, to conjure up the twenty or so willing to sacrifice their lives by surging forward to seize control of the corridor. At least that many would die before the guards were overpowered.
Timur took possession of one of the machine guns, aiming at the protruding wood stump. He fired, splintering the wood-walking forward at the same time. The stump was disintegrating under a barrage of steady gunfire. Maintaining the volley of bullets, the wood fragmented. The door could be shut, locked, the final access point closed. Timur sprang forward. Before he could reach the handle, three more stumps of wood were pushed through. There was no way to shut the door. Out of bullets, Timur pulled back.
Four additional guards had arrived, stationed at the end of the corridor, making seven in total-a pitiful force to hold off five hundred. Since their early losses, the prisoners hadn’t attempted a second advance. If a proportion weren’t prepared to sacrifice their lives, there was no way to progress. They were almost certainly devising another means of attack. One of the officers whispered:
– We stick our guns in the gap in the door! They don’t have weapons! They’ll drop the wood: we’ll shut the door.
Three officers nodded, running forward.
They hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps when the door was flung open. Panicked, the officers opened fire-to no avail. The foremost prisoners were using the injured crew as a human shield: burnt bodies carried like battering rams, skinless, charred faces screaming.
The officer nearest the advance tried to backtrack, his weapon firing uselessly into his colleague. The convict launched the body at him, knocking the officer to the floor. The guards redirected their bullets toward the prisoners’ feet. Several fell, but there were too many of them, moving too fast. The column of prisoners continued to advance. In minutes they would control the corridor, from which point they would spread to the rest of the ship. Timur would be lynched. Paralyzed, he couldn’t even fire his handgun. What use were six shots against five hundred? It was as pointless as shooting at the sea.
Struck by an idea, he turned, hurrying to the outer door, the door that opened onto the deck. He threw it wide open, exposing the wild sea, a dizzy mass of water. Each of the guards wore a safety belt. He clipped his hook to the wire that ran around the tower, a system designed to prevent men from being washed overboard.
Glancing back at the gunfight, there were only two officers remaining. Scores of prisoners were dead but a seemingly inexhaustible number were packed behind them. Timur called out to the sea, challenging it, rallying it:
– Come on!
The ship plunged down, pointing Timur into a deep trough. Then, slowly, the ship rose up. A mountain of water was rolling straight toward him, the crumbling white surf high above, blotting out the sky. It crashed into the side of the ship, flooding the corridor. Timur was swept back, immersed in the sea. Water filled the space entirely. The cold stunned him. He was helpless-unable to move, or think, washed down the corridor.
His safety hook saved him, pulled him to a standstill. The wave had broken over the ship. The ship countered the movement, tipping back the other way. The water drained away as quickly as it had swept in. Timur fell to the floor, gasping, surveying the results of the flood. The wall of prisoners had been smashed back, some to the floor, most down the steps. Before they were able to recover, he unclipped himself, ran forward, his clothes soaked and heavy, his boots squelching over the shot-up bodies of guards and prisoners, victims of the skirmish. He slammed the door shut, locking it. The subdeck levels were secure.
There was no time to waste. The door to the sea was wide open: another mountain of water might flood the interior, toppling the entire ship, Timur moved back toward the outer deck door. A hand grabbed him. One of the prisoners was alive, tripping him. The prisoner clambered on top of him, pointing a machine gun at his head. There was no chance he’d miss. The prisoner pulled the trigger. Out of ammunition, or ruined by the sea, the gun didn’t fire.
Granted a reprieve, Timur sparked back into life, smashing the prisoner’s nose with a punch, spinning him onto his front and forcing his face into a puddle of water. Once more the ship began to tilt down, this time to Timur’s disadvantage, the water draining away, saving the prisoner, who could now breathe. Dead bodies slid down the corridor, out onto the deck. Timur and the injured prisoner were slipping in the same direction, wrestling with each other, only meters from tumbling into the sea.
As they passed through the door Timur reached up and grabbed hold of the safety line, kicking the injured prisoner, sending him out onto the deck. A second wave was racing toward them. Timur pulled himself inside, shutting the door. As he stared through the small plate glass window, directly into the eyes of the prisoner, the wave hit. The vibrations rippled through his hands. When the water had cleared, the prisoner was gone.
SAME DAY
Leo watched from the bottom of the stairs as the newly appointed leader of their uprising tugged the steel door, trying to pull it open. They were trapped, with no way of getting to the bridge. He’d lost many of his vory gang in the attempt to break free. Needless to say, he’d commanded from the back, avoiding the bullets. The surge of water had swept him downstairs. Leo glanced at the floor-he was ankle deep, a mass that was rolling from side to side, destabilizing the vessel. There was no way to pump it out, not in the midst of the current hostilities. There was no chance of cooperation. If any more water came in, the ship would capsize. They’d sink, in the darkness, unable to break out, locked in a steel prison as freezing seawater seeped in. Yet the ship’s precarious condition was of little interest to their newly self-appointed leader. A convict revolutionary, he was determined to succeed or die.
The coal engine began to splutter. Leo turned back to assess the damage. The engine had to be kept running. Addressing the remaining prisoners, he called out for help:
– We have to keep the coal dry and the fire fed.
The convict leader reentered the engine room, snarling:
– If they don’t free us we’ll smash the engine.
Leo shook his head:
– If we lose power the ship can’t navigate, it will sink. We need the engine to keep working. Our lives depend upon it.
– So do theirs. If we cut the power, they’ve got to talk to usthey’ve got to negotiate.
– They will never open those doors. We smash the engine: they’ll abandon ship. They’ve got life rafts, enough for them and none of us. They’d rather let us drown.
– How do you know?
– They’ve done it before! Aboard the Dzhurma! Prisoners broke into the store, stole food, and set fire to the rest, the rice sacks, the wood shelves, expecting the guards to come rushing down. They didn’t. They let it burn. All the prisoners suffocated.
Leo picked up a shovel. The convict leader shook his head:
– Put it down!
Leo ignored him, shoveling the coal, feeding the engine. Neglected, it was already markedly cooler. None of the other men were helping, waiting to see how the conflict played out. Assessing his opponent, Leo wasn’t convinced he could overpower him. It had been a long time since he’d fought anyone. He tightened his grip on the shovel, preparing himself. To his surprise, the convict smiled:
– Go ahead. Shovel the coal like a slave. There’s another way out.
The convict grabbed a second shovel and climbed through the smashed partition wall into the prisoner hold. Leo stood, uncertain whether to continue shoveling or follow the man. Within moments the clamor of steel smashing against steel rang out. Leo rushed through the gap in the partition wall, returning to the gloom of the hold. Squinting, he saw that the vory was at the top of the stairs, using the shovel to land blows against the deck hatch. To an ordinary man such a task would be futile. But his strength was such that the hatch was beginning to buckle upward, arching under the pressure. Eventually the steel would tear. Leo called out:
– You break the hatch and water will flood in. There’s no way to close it again. If the hold fills up the ship will
