Dragon Raja 3; Chapter 2: The Imperial Commissioner (1)

Dragon Raja 3

In the deep autumn of 1991, Northern Siberia, at an unnamed port.

The port was situated in the northernmost part of Siberia, facing the vast Arctic Ocean. It couldn’t be found on nautical charts, and even American spy satellites couldn’t detect it. Like the surrounding permafrost, it was a grayish-white place, giving off very little heat signal.

There shouldn’t have been a port here at all, surrounded by desolate wilderness. The nearest city was Verkhoyansk, which in the Tsarist era was a place of exile for political prisoners—a city designed to crush hope. In the long, harsh winters, political prisoners often succumbed to despair and took their own lives. And Verkhoyansk was still 340 kilometers south of the unnamed port. It took five days by dogsled to reach the port from Verkhoyansk. This was a place even forgotten by the gods, where the only vegetation was lichen and moss, and the occasional visitors were hungry polar bears.

A rusted cast-iron pier extended onto the frozen sea, and a young sentinel stood at the pier’s end, shouldering a “PPSh-41 submachine gun” with a five-pointed star embedded on his bearskin hat. From his epaulets, it was clear he was a sergeant of the Soviet Red Army.

The sun at the horizon was sluggish, resembling a soft-boiled egg, failing to warm the ground. But this was the last sunlight of the year; the polar night would soon begin, and for the next few months, the sun wouldn’t rise again. The sentinel gazed into the distance, towards the icy sea, where the cold wind swept across the surface. 

The ship hadn’t arrived yet. Typically, this sea was impassable—dangerous ice floes and jagged reefs beneath the surface made sure that any ship attempting to approach would meet its end. But there were exceptions: in the summer, when the ice melted and cracked, sailors familiar with the route could pilot icebreakers around the reefs to reach the unnamed port. This perilous, intermittent route was the port’s lifeline, as all supplies depended on it.

Each year, the Lenin would arrive, sometimes early, sometimes late, but it had never missed. It was an aging nuclear-powered icebreaker, with a red star emblazoned on its white bow. No matter the day of its arrival, it would become a festival for the unnamed port. The soldiers would wave their bearskin hats and rush to the pier, gathering to watch the enormous silhouette of the ship rise over the horizon! The Lenin would majestically plow through the ice floes, leaving a brilliant blue channel in its wake. That was the power of the Soviet Union—the iron fist, unstoppable. But this year, it was late—too late. The sea had already frozen over, and the ice was thickening, growing downward. In a few weeks, the route would be completely closed, and not even the Lenin could open a path.

Could something have gone wrong in Moscow? The sentinel bit down on a “Moskvich” cigarette, lost in thought. His lighter wouldn’t ignite—most likely the kerosene inside had frozen.

“Damn it!” The sentinel took off his gloves, cupping the lighter in his hands to warm it.

Suddenly, he turned his head, alert, staring out at the end of the icy sea. The wind was picking up, and a mass of dark clouds was rolling in from the north. In this high-latitude region, rainfall was rarer than in the Sahara Desert, but when black cumulonimbus clouds appeared, the weather could change in an instant, burying the port under heavy snow. Snow dust was being swept up from the sea, like a white sandstorm, rising dozens of meters into the air. 

The area covered by the clouds was pitch black, while the other half was a bleak, icy white. The boundary between black and white was razor sharp. The sentinel stumbled toward the iron frame, striking a brass bell, its sound scattering across the desolate snowfield.

It was a warning of the incoming blizzard.

After sounding the warning, the sentinel pulled his bearskin hat down and ran back, but an unbelievable sight appeared in his field of vision. A vague shadow was gliding under the clouds, nimbly weaving around the icebergs, approaching at high speed.

A skier?

The sentinel couldn’t believe his eyes. Who would come to a place like this to ski? If the person had come from the south, it could have been a border guard stationed in Verkhoyansk, but this figure was coming from the north, where there was nothing—only the Arctic. The sentinel bit his cigarette, his teeth chattering. He couldn’t make sense of the situation. Was it an American special forces team infiltrating under cover of the blizzard? But how could they dare take such a huge risk? If the figure slowed even slightly, they’d be swallowed by the storm.

There was no time to think. The sentinel tugged at his strap, and the PPSh’s barrel swung out from under his arm—he had the right to shoot any intruders, as this was a military zone. But at that moment, the skier waved two small red-and-white flags. They were the universal signal flags of the Soviet Navy, spelling out a name—“Lenin.” Every year when the Lenin arrived, the sailors would wave these flags, signifying they were envoys from Moscow, bringing greetings from the Soviets to the garrison at the unnamed port. Had Moscow changed its strategy this year? Sent someone skiing to deliver supplies? The sentinel couldn’t wrap his head around it, but regardless, he couldn’t shoot now—the signal was the passcode, granting the skier the right to enter the unnamed port.

With a flurry of snow swirling around him, the skier came to a sudden stop in front of the sentinel, removed his goggles, and tossed them into the snow. He was a striking man, handsome and tall, with neatly slicked iron-gray hair set with hair gel, and his muscular body was clad only in military shorts and a sleeveless vest. In the minus 10-degree wind, steam rose from his body. The man pulled a lighter from his shorts and lit a cigarette with a flourish. The silver casing of the lighter was etched with the hammer and sickle and the words “70th Anniversary of the October Revolution.”

The sentinel couldn’t refuse the man’s generosity and leaned in to light his own cigarette.

“Keep it,” the man tossed the lighter to the sentinel. “In a place this cold, you need low-freezing-point aviation fuel. Save yours for the summer.”

The sentinel suddenly realized he was still holding his useless lighter. The man’s insight was razor sharp. What’s more, anyone else in his situation would have been desperately seeking shelter to rest. This also showed that even after skiing in such extreme weather, the man still had strength to spare. The man then retrieved a deep gray officer’s uniform from his military backpack. Moments later, fully dressed, he solemnly pinned a “Red Banner Order” on his chest. A minute ago, he was just a skier, but now, with his steely gaze, he was every bit the young authority figure from Moscow.

“KGB Major Bondarev, I’m from Moscow,” the man presented his credentials. “Take me to Dr. Herzog, and tell him this is a moment of life and death.”

“Yes, Major!” The sentinel saluted.

With the simplest words, the man had clarified his identity: he was an envoy from Moscow, an agent of the secret intelligence service. In the Tsarist era, such men were known as “Imperial Commissioners.”

The underground room was as warm as spring. An old-fashioned gramophone played Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake.” An elderly man unscrewed a bottle of vodka, pouring half a glass for both of them, each glass filled with pristine ice cubes. He handed one to Major Bondarev: “Red Label Vodka, the kind of liquor that can set a man’s blood on fire. Wasting a drop would be a sin. Every year, the icebreaker brings me a crate—this is the last bottle from last year.”

“To our country, and to you, Major,” the elderly man raised his glass. “Every piece of ice in your glass is over ten thousand years old, from the depths of our great motherland’s permafrost, symbolizing the purity and strength of our friendship!”