Seizing Siberia

By William Wresch

Russia’s failing war in Ukraine tempts China to take all of East Siberia. Its plan has two parts. First, build a pipeline to the Arctic – under a Russian license. But the pipeline will be heavily fortified, ready to provide a western wall when Chinese forces march north in the second part of the conquest. Protected by the western wall, China can take all the Pacific coast and much of the Arctic.
Catherine has no interest in Russia or China. She lives a quiet life in Madison, Wisconsin, enjoying the arrival of spring. Then her husband is killed as her daughter is kidnapped and carried to Moscow. Catherine races after her daughter only to be captured and taken to Siberia. Her job? Prevent a Chinese takeover of Russian lands. Why would she help the Russians? And how should she respond to the Chinese leader who declares her to be his property?
For over a year she lives locked in a converted shipping container while the Chinese fight their way north – north to the Arctic Ocean and the conquest of Siberia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Wresch
• Release date: Jan 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215684450

William Wresch

I have three sets of books here. The first is an alternative history of the US, envisioning how things might have gone had the French prevailed in the French and Indian War. That series comes from some personal experiences. I have canoed sections of the Fox, and driven along its banks. I have followed the voyageur route from the Sault to Quebec and traveled from Green Bay to New Orleans by car and by boat. My wife and I have spent many happy days on Mackinac Island and in Door County. The Jessica Thorpe series is very different. It takes place in the tiny town of Amberg, Wisconsin, a place where I used to live. I wanted to describe that town and its troubles. Initially the novel involved a militia take over of the town, and it was called "Two Angry Men." But both men were predictable and boring. I had decided to have the story narrated by the town bartender - Jessica - and I soon realized she was the most interesting character in the book. She became the lead in the Jessica Thorpe series. I restarted the series with a fight over a proposed water plant with Jessica balancing environmental rights and business rights. I put Jessica right in the middle of a real problem we are experiencing here in Wisconsin (and most other places). How badly does a tiny town need jobs? How much environmental damage should we accept? The third series changes the lead character. Catherine Johnson solves mysteries. She also travels. It took her to many places I have been. The last several books take place in Russia. I admit I have no idea what is motivating the current madness there. Catherine looks, she tries to help, she struggles. What else can any of us do?

Book preview

Chapter 1

East Siberia

It was a constant thunder. A beautiful thunder. Huge earth movers circled, and every circle brought more earth to the perimeter berms. Li took the time to watch. He had a million things to do, a punch list that went on forever, and eight or nine assistants waiting for a word, or order, a nod. But there was magic in the air. The thunder. And the shaking beneath his feet. Creation. He had built bridges all over China. Twelve lane highways. Raised highways across much of Shanghai. Impressive. And satisfying. All of it.

But this was a different matter entirely. He wasn’t in China. He was in Russia. One hundred kilometers into Russia. Soon to be two hundred, then three. Into Russia. Across the border laying pipe. Laying pipe and building military bases. Service areas on the blueprints and on the permits. Nominally there to hold repair equipment. But the berm his earthmovers were creating established the real purpose of the bases. Three-meter-tall perimeters topped with razor wire. Topped by bunkers just out of sight. Ready to defend. Ready to protect. Fortifications of the land’s new masters.

He stood in the middle, dirt blowing in the wind. He felt yet another huge machine pile around him. Finally he turned to the first assistant in line. Yes, it was time to start pouring concrete footings. Yes, a mortar pit should go in. Yes, camouflage netting should go up. Yes. He sent off eleven assistants to start eleven projects now that the perimeter berm was high enough to hide all construction. Stealth. One set of blueprints for a service area. A second set used to create a firebase. One more month to build out this base and bivouac necessary troops.

Then north another hundred kilometers. On to the next pearl in the chain. He was on time and on budget. And he was already deep into East Siberia. Former Chinese lands taken during the Opium Wars. Now China again. Nineteen more bases to the Arctic Ocean. His chain. His pearls. His stealth conquest. Once completed, his pearls would define the new border. Everything east – China. The entire Pacific Coast and large portions along the Arctic Ocean. West? The pathetic remains of a defeated Russia.

Siberian summer was brief, but he was making good progress. The pipeline stood a meter above the permafrost and already disappeared north, a maintenance road alongside. Two more bases would be completed, and a fourth well underway before the weather turned. Four hundred kilometers of Siberia under Chinese control before winter. He had much to smile about.

Overhead satellites saw the pipeline. Saw the base. Saw the size and the configuration. Images were captured and routed to offices in the Pentagon and in the Kremlin. Officers met. Agencies were contacted. Meetings held. Decisions made. Orders given. Agents moved into position. One group of agents moved to Madison, Wisconsin.

Chapter 2

Spring

Spring is a tease in Wisconsin. It pokes its head out for a day or two in March. A little sun, temps in the 60s, a chance to wear a lighter coat. Then back to winter. Spring can be mean in April. April showers include snow and wind and ice - enough sunshine that people may leave a coat at home, only to regret it later in the day.

But there comes a time. Official spring. Televised spring. Terrace spring. Local news crews arrive and broadcast the placement of the famous metal sunburst tables and chairs along the shore of Lake Mendota. Officially a part of the University of Wisconsin Student Union, it is open to all. Three terraced levels hold seating for hundreds, and on any warm day those tables are filled. Spring has arrived.

Catherine and Sergei nursed beers and watched a few sailboats take off from the student docks. Time to kill while Lana took a late afternoon ballet lesson in a nearby building. Time to breathe slowly. Time to feel warmth from the sun. Time to look at each other and smile. They had survived a Wisconsin winter. More importantly, they had survived Russia. The beer was cold, the view was fabulous, life was good.

Both were armed, and they sat opposite each other so each could watch the other’s back. But they had escaped from Russia almost a year earlier. Months had gone by without an incident. Reasonable caution was assumed, but the sun was warm, and the beer was cold. Sergei raised his glass and made the usual toast.

Thirty years.

Catherine matched his movement.

Thirty years we walk Lana to school, watch her marry, spoil our grandchildren, and shake our bed.

The years were calculated carefully. Catherine was fifty. Thirty years earlier she had sat at these tables laughing with her teammates from the women’s basketball team. Twenty years in an Army officer’s uniform had followed. Several rough years in Russia were more recent, but they had given her an adopted daughter and a huge Russian husband. She was ready for thirty years of motherhood and calm.

Sergei had a longer career as commander of a Russian tank division, but he had achieved his greatest goal – he had gotten his granddaughter (now his adopted daughter) free of Russia. He had married his greatest adversary. And he still had the strength to shake their bed. If he really did have thirty years of life left to him, he was certain he would spend it just as their toast proclaimed. They had promised each other a quiet life in Madison, Wisconsin, and so far they had achieved that.

Sergei finished his beer and crossed the terrace to an outdoor bar for a refill. The terrace was full. Crowded. Students with large backpacks. Alumni with portfolios and laptops. All wanted to sit in the sun – and maybe do some of the work they had promised themselves they would do. Sergei was huge. He filled all the space between the tables and the sunburst chairs. He moved left, he moved right, he caught a series of backpacks against his shoulder or side as he found his way to the tiki bar, then back to Catherine. Bumps. Redirection. A stream of excuse mes. Spring had come. Finally there was a sun in the sky. People wanted to be outside.

This is a German state, yes?

A bit of his beer splashed on the table as he dropped into his chair.

Yes. German immigrants to Wisconsin, Swedish to Minnesota.

Germans make good beer. He smiled and drank half his cup.

Finish and we will go back to see what Lana has learned today.

Sergei nodded, a satisfied smile on his face as he raised his cup. His eyes held Catherine as the cup slipped from his huge hand and his head dropped forward onto the table. The metal table sounded like a gong as his head hit it. Catherine was up in an instant and pulled him back against his chair. His hand rose toward his neck, then stopped halfway and dropped against his lap. His mouth opened wide, his eyes opened wide, he stared at Catherine confused. Then his eyes closed and he fell forward again. Catherine was a large woman, but Sergei was huge. She couldn’t hold him. His head hit the table again. She pulled her phone from her pocket and autodialed two numbers, one local, one long distance.

She massaged his throat while she waited for the emergency crew to arrive. She felt his neck muscles stiffen, and she felt his pulse stop. She leaned across his huge back and continued to massage his neck long after she knew he was gone. People at adjoining tables came close, then backed away. She asked for room. She asked for a clear path for the medics. She waited.

She heard sirens. She saw campus police, then the Madison police. Tables near her emptied. She leaned over Sergei, massaged his neck, shielded him with her body, and waited.

It took four men to get Sergei on the gurney. They used paddles for his heart and opened an airway through his throat. Catherine held his hand. They allowed that. He was already dead. They knew that. But they followed procedures. Then they wheeled him away.

Catherine followed as they rolled towards the ambulance, then screamed and took off running. Ballet classes were held in what had once been the women’s gym. She had once spent endless hours playing basketball there. Now she raced toward the building and up the stairs, two police officers racing with her.

The instructor was tiny. Maybe five three. Thin. Dancer thin. Surrounded by twenty or so eight to ten year olds, she was positioning one of the girls when Catherine jumped up on stage and grabbed the woman.

Lana. The woman seemed shocked to be interrupted. She froze in place. Lana. Where is Lana?

In my office. Her face moved through several expressions, then finally formed a smile. Congratulations.

Catherine jumped down off the stage and ran to the faculty offices down a hallway. The door was open, the office empty. On the desk, turned to be easily seen and easily read by anyone entering the room was a large, bright white certificate with gold edging and the Bolshoi logo.

The Bolshoi Prodigy Program

Svetlana Orlov – honored recipient

Catherine took off running, several police officers in her wake.

The street. Look for her. Probably already in a car.

She and the police ran back out to the street, then split up and checked streets in each direction. Catherine ran a circle around the entire building. She ran. And looked. And ran. Circled the building twice knowing she was too late. Sergei had been a distraction. Maybe a bonus. An old score settled. But a distraction nonetheless. Ten or fifteen minutes. Plenty of time for a snatch and run.

Catherine stood at the front of the building and waited for several cops to return from side streets. Each arrived shaking their heads. Two stayed outside. The others followed her back into the building.

How many came? Can you describe them?

They were Russian. Like you.

The woman seemed affronted. She dismissed her class and then stood before Catherine and several officers.

How many?

Two. Thirties. Good English. Pleasant. They gave me business cards and told me they had an award for Lana. They asked for a quiet place to talk with her. I told them to use my office.

Catherine imagined the scene. Busy woman, active girls, noise and confusion, easy to direct guests off to another place.

They were from the Bolshoi, Mrs. Orlov. The Bolshoi.

And that had settled the matter. Small time dance instructor - star struck. She had met people from the Bolshoi. She had their cards to show her friends. Off went a very excited Lana.

One of the police officers began taking her statement. Catherine backed away and took a phone call.

Lana. They killed Sergei and took Lana.

She got the words out. She was choking and crying but got the words out. Washington would respond. Her friends would act. Catherine put the phone away. She found she could not bear to be in her old gym. She slowly exited the building and stood on the street. Three officers stood near but did not speak with her. They were on their own comms taking orders. Based on their positioning, they were being told to defend against a shooting. Catherine knew there would be no assassination attempt. What Russia wanted done was already done. She was safe. And completely alone.

Chapter 3

Two Conversations

Deirdre Jackson flew up from Chicago. FBI helicopter. She was there in under an hour. By then everything that could be done had been done. And in truth, there was little that could be done. Moving Lana certainly involved a combination of cars and planes. Wisconsin had dozens of local airports too small for a control tower. So did Illinois, Iowa, and Minnesota. Once on a plane she was gone.

A video arrived three days later. The day of Sergei’s funeral. Lana in leotard and slippers in line with a group of girls her age doing a dance routine on a stage. The camera followed her for a while, then moved to wide angle to show a theater famous around the world. She was at the Bolshoi. Close ups showed her struggling to match the steps of the other girls. Complete concentration. Then a big smile. The instructor said something nice about their performance. All the girls gathered into a tight group and hugged each other.

The video moved to some text. Visiting hours. Parents were encouraged to visit Wednesday afternoons. There would be a brief performance, then parents would be granted thirty minutes with their daughter.

Deirdre showed the video in the Johnson’s living room. She sat on one side of Catherine and held her hands. Catherine’s parents stood in a corner holding each other and crying.

Two conversations followed.

Deirdre was first. She drove Catherine to her hotel out near the highway. They had stayed in such hotels many times. Quick access to the road, prices allowable under federal TDY accounting. They didn’t say much in the car. They didn’t say much in Deirdre’s room. Not for a while. They stood holding each other. Mostly Deirdre held Catherine. Six feet tall, somewhere in the two hundred and fifty pound range, Deirdre was one of the few women who could pull Catherine to her and hold her.

Catherine lay her head on Deirdre’s shoulder, quietly cried, slowly kissed Deirdre’s neck. Deirdre stroked her hair.

You should have married me when we were at Fort Meade. Catherine’s words were barely audible. They mingled regret with an accusation.

Yes, I should have. Deirdre slowly stroked Catherine’s hair.

I had three months left to complete my twenty. Then I could have followed you anywhere you were assigned. The perfect housewife.

Deirdre played a bit with Catherine’s hair. They kissed.

So, Catherine, your dream retirement was to select curtains for our apartment and buy throw pillows to decorate our home.

Don’t trivialize it. Twenty years of risk and responsibility. I had done my share. I would have been a good wife.

Deirdre pulled Catherine toward her bed and sat with her. She gathered Catherine in her arms, held her like a little child, then gently lay her on the bed. Catherine raised her arms as Deirdre leaned over her. She gradually pulled Catherine’s arms down to her sides and took control of her. She was heavy. She was hot. Her breasts flowed across Catherine’s chest and up toward her neck. Catherine kissed each of them.

I think you’ve gotten bigger. Do they hurt you?

There is some pull on my back, but they help with interrogations. Men spend lots of time staring at my chest and don’t think about their answers.

And now? I like that you are pushing them towards my face, but I think you want more than kisses.

Deirdre tightened her arms around Catherine. She had much to say and needed Catherine to listen. She kissed her several times while watching her reaction.

The Russians expect you to chase after Lana. They want you there. They want Lana. We know that. She is a language prodigy, and I would guess a good dancer. Language skills plus physical skills. An ideal agent. They will use her. But they also want you. I am sure of it.

I want Lana back.

You aren’t going to get her back. You have to know that.

I don’t know that.

Catherine, we’ve spoken with witnesses. Lana went voluntarily. Happily. An excited little girl about to have her dreams come true. She may just be nine, but she is a very independent nine. What happens if you get to Moscow, and she refuses to leave?

At least I will be with her.

In Moscow. Catherine, I can keep you here. You know too much classified information. I can put you on a no-fly list. We have the legal authority.

Don’t.

Catherine moved in Deirdre’s arms. Deirdre just held her tighter.

Here’s another option. Me. Live with me. I have a nice townhouse in Maryland. You can decorate it. I’ll hold you every night. I’ll keep you warm. I’ll keep you alive.

I’m going to Moscow.

They will use you, Catherine. Just as they used you before. They want you to come to them. Once there, you will be their agent.

I will get Lana out of there. Somehow.

You are staying here with me. My wife.

Twelve hours later they were still in bed, Deirdre still holding Catherine, still telling her truths Catherine refused to hear.

When I get back, Lana and I will join you in Maryland. I will marry you.

If you go to Russia, you will never return to the U.S. I am certain of it.

The only certainty is I have to try. I will not leave my daughter in the hands of Russians.

You are doing exactly what they want. Exactly what they expect. They will keep you and use you.

I have escaped from Russia before. I can do it again.

Not this time, Cat. Not this time. They set the trap. They want you. They will keep you.

Deidre kissed Cat, Catherine knowing exactly what Deirdre was doing. And feeling exactly what Deirdre wanted her to feel – desire, love, warmth, pleasure. It would be so good to share the woman’s bed night after night. She wanted it. But not enough.

Deidre…

Catherine, I already know the next words out of your mouth. You want to ask if we will send a team to Moscow to get your daughter. You know we can’t. And, since she is, like you, a Russian citizen, we won’t. You know that. But you have to ask. You are her mother. Mothers have to ask.

Catherine ran her hands over Deirdre. So big, so solid, yet still so soft. She kissed her, then looked up into her face still shaded under the falls of hair.

You know what I will do. I have to do it.

Maybe I’ll chain you to my bed.

When I come back. Chain me. Keep me. Marry me. When I come back.

They will use you, Catherine. They want Svetlana. She will become one of their best agents. But that is a decade from now. You have value to them now. They lure you to Moscow, let you spend time with Lana, then make you an offer you can’t refuse. You will never get Lana out of there, and we will never see you again.

She’s my daughter, Deirdre. She is my daughter.

Deirdre took Catherine home in the morning, both women exhausted, both women still clinging to each other as Deirdre parked.

I would have been a good wife, Deirdre. A much better wife than a spy. You should have asked. I’m a good cook, and yes, I would have bought throw pillows for the couch. You needed more flare in your apartment. You needed me.

You know the code if you need help. And you know there is almost nothing we can do about it.

Their final hug was long. They both knew it was final.

The second conversation happened at breakfast. Mostly it was Catherine’s mother who did the talking.

You served your country twenty years. You have done enough.

She stood near a hot plate making pancakes. Her place in the world. Her kitchen. Her room to command. She stood over those seated at her table and ordered that they eat more. Today she had other commands.

I don’t go for my country, I go for my daughter.

This is all about your country and their country, and you know it.

She waved a spatula, then put another pancake on Catherine’s plate. Her father pushed the syrup bottle to her side of the table.

I have to try.

Catherine stared down at her pancakes. Her father was spreading a pat of butter over his pancakes. He moved his knife in slow swirls. He kept moving through the butter long after the pat had fully melted. Catherine’s mother stirred pancake batter and stared out the window.

She was going to help me put in my garden.

I should have been at the ballet practice. Her father held his knife in a fist. I should have been there.

Don’t. Catherine was practically shouting. They wanted her. They sent people after her. They waited for the right time. If we had been there, they would have found another time. They wanted her, they took her, that’s that. We know she is safe. The Bolshoi. She is dancing at the Bolshoi. Her dream. I will fly over tonight. I will find out what they want. And I will bring her home.

We know what they want, Kat. Her mother stood close and slowly stroked her hair. They want you.

Sergei got me out once. Maybe Deirdre will this time. Maybe others. It may take time, but we will get out. I am certain.

After several hours of hugging, packing, and tears, Catherine caught a plane out of Chicago.

Chapter 4

Ilya’s Rules

Ilya was waiting in Moscow, handcuffs ready. She had lost weight. And aged. Catherine had been out of Russia for less than a year. Apparently it had been a rough time for Ilya. An officer in the FSB, she had been Catherine’s control. She was the one who set up Catherine’s book tour – the tour that brought her to the extreme south of Russia and eased her escape over the border to Kazakhstan.

Ilya had paid a price. At five nine and many pounds overweight, she had been a large woman. The extra weight was gone. Wrinkles of flesh were hidden by long sleeves and a longer skirt, but flaps of skin near her neck revealed the loss of weight – and the increase in age. Her fifty years now looked more like sixty. Even her hair looked thinner – and grayer.

She was angry about it. Catherine had been seated at the back of the plane. The instant the wheels touched ground, two large men rushed to her seat and held her in place until every other passenger had deplaned. Then she was pushed down endless empty hallways and through a series of security doors to a corner of the airport unknown to the public. The men brought Catherine to Ilya. Ilya just pointed and the men pushed Catherine face first against a wall. Ilya cuffed her wrists behind her. She made them tight.

Not a word was spoken on the walk out to the car and the drive to an apartment near Gorky Park. Ilya lived on the second floor. It was an apartment Catherine knew. She had lived there with another woman. Another FSB agent. Catherine was grateful they climbed stairs. At least she wasn’t being taken to the basement. If she was to be executed, it would not be today.

There was no sign of Victor, Ilya’s husband. Probably back in Novosibirsk. Moscow was reserved for Ilya. Reserved for Ilya to do whatever had been planned for Catherine. Her first move was to simply push Catherine down on the couch and straddle her. Ilya’s knees pressed on each side of her hips. Her ass weighed down Catherine’s thighs. Her ass was boney.

Do you remember when I held you like this in Kaliningrad?

Ilya leaned forward, her hands taking Catherine’s hair and forcing her head back against the top of the couch.

I remember the cuffs weren’t as tight.

Do you remember the promises you made to the FSB, and to me?

You got what you wanted. Your agent – Tatiana – got into Lithuania with the Ukraine women. No doubt she learned what she needed to ensure no other Ukrainians were able to escape your hold on them.

Yes, she has been very successful. But we wished for more from you. And now you will deliver.

Ilya held her face just above Catherine’s. There was a fever in her eyes. A deep anger. The anger of a rejected lover. Catherine was certain Ilya wished to kill her. She might. But not tonight. There was some proposal to be presented. Some plot. Some duties to perform. But there would come a time. Ilya would get her revenge for her humiliation, her pain, her loss. Catherine would find a time for her own revenge. They had killed Sergey and taken Lana. They would pay. Ilya would pay.

I have come for my daughter, Ilya.

We knew you would, but that’s the wrong response. You should tell me you missed me.

"We had moments together. There was affection. But not enough. You killed my husband and took my daughter. You shouldn’t have done that,