"So those lazy bastards said. Why the hell didn't they tell us that in the first place?"
"Got the keys?" The walking man had returned to his companion. The barrel of the Makarov was icy against Gant's cheek. He pressed farther into the shadows, his gaze intent upon the corner of the hangar.
"Let's have a look-see, then."
The small, metallic noises of unlocking the padlock on the main doors, the creak of wood, the grunt of a man straining against the wind with the great sailplane of one of the doors.
"Fucking little door was open all the time!" one of them exclaimed.
Gant heard the large door slam back into place, shuddering as it did so, banging again and again in the wind. He strained to listen, ear against the wall, but only muffled exclamations reached him from inside the hangar. If they found—if they guessed—
Light sprang from the window above his head, making him flinch. Wildly, he looked around. An empty oil drum lying on its side in the straggling grass. He stepped out of the shadows, pocketing the gun. Dragged the drum, which whispered hollowly as he touched it, directly under the window. Climbed onto it, taking the gun once more from his pocket, slipping off the safety catch. He looked down into the hangar.
And flinched back instantly as one of the uniformed men turned
his direction. Waited, not breathing, then raised his head cautiously. They were looking at the Antonov. One of them was point-
ln
g at the litter of material he had removed from the cabin. Tossing his head in amused puzzlement, tapping one finger to his forehead. Two GRU uniforms, perhaps even the two he had failed to kill earlier on the embankment. Returning in the long swing of their patrol to the collective, learning this time of the hangar, its two aircraft— reassured they wouldn't fly?
He watched one of the two, a corporal, move toward the door, then through it. The remaining soldier had lit a cigarette, taken a flask from the pocket of his parka. He swigged violently, wiped his chin, licked the back of his hand. Gant stepped down from the oil drum, crept cautiously along the side of the hangar. Returning moonlight searched him out. The wind slapped his parka's skirts against the building's wall, and he grabbed the garment closer around him. Paused at the corner.
Listened.
. . say neither of them's capable of flying . . . bits missing, sir. I don't know what bits, sir. Sorry, sir. ..." The man's words were interrupted or accompanied by a tinny squeak from the UAZ's radio. The corporal was standing by the vehicle, leaning against the door, microphone in his hand, the other hand scratching his cheek. "That's what he said, sir, the collective's engineer. Neither of them can fly. What, sir? OK, until further orders, yes, sir. Over and out." He threw the microphone into the cab of the UAZ. Gant darted back into the shadows of the hangar. His whole chest and stomach seemed empty as he heard the corporal call out: "Ivan. Officer says we're to stay here until further orders. Have a break, he says, but stay sharp. Suits me."
Until further orders.
Gant was trapped, separated from the Antonov, unless he killed both of them. And if he did that, he'd raise the alarm for certain. As soon as they failed to call in—every hour, half hour, every fifteen minutes?—the gunships would come looking for him, certain of his whereabouts. He couldn't kill them. He couldn't do anything.
"We are at T minus three hours, final countdown continues."
Wild cheering, as if the words had released tensions in
a great
wave that rushed through mission control. Priabin felt battered by its strength.
On
screen after screen, in front of him and to
each
side, the shuttle stood atop its massive booster stages. The last of the liquid oxygen fumed away from the flanks of the vast
machine,
the skeletal gantry threw its shadows down the checkerboard pattern on the missile's side. The cheering went on, deafening and
exaggerated.
Even the guard at his side had a wide grin on his face, as he puffed at his cigarette. Priabin ignored the cigarette the guard had given him. On the huge fiber-optic map twenty feet away, the
undulating
course of the American shuttle
Atlantis
across the planet looked like the measurement of a regular sine wave.
Rodin's voice was amplified and mechanical over the PA, but still betrayed the man's excitement as it reached every part of the room.
"Gentlemen, we are on schedule," he announced. A renewed ripple of applause as he stated the self-evident, iuxuriating in it. Priabin could see the general, behind glass like a zoo exhibit, looking out at his kingdom. "We shall be commencing the transfer of the liquid hydrogen to the booster stages in approximately two minutes' time. The
Raketoplari
s crew will be boarding the craft within the next five minutes. Thank you, gentlemen. Keep up the good work." More applause, sounding now like a frantic desire to maintain an already overheated emotional atmosphere. Dying away reluctantly.
On one screen, the vehicle carrying the three members of the shuttle's crew drew up at the base of the launch gantry. Priabin watched as the men, already suited and helmeted, and carrying their life-support packs like white suitcases, lumbered toward the elevator to take them the hundred or more meters to the shuttle. From the television monitor, there was faint cheering from the ground personnel. Priabin looked at his guard, then drew heavily on his cigarette. His face and body's aches had subsided into a general discomfort. Rodin had even had a nurse to dab his cuts and bruises, inspect the darkened flesh over ribs and buttocks, and pronounce upon the degree of injury Serov had inflicted. One damaged rib, otherwise no more than heavy bruising and abrasions. There was sticking plaster on his forehead, but the stinging of the antiseptics
a
nd the adrenaline solution to stem the blood flowing from his cleaned cuts had faded.
Rodin had talked to him; wary of him, massively resentful at some moments, indifferent at others. But though he had Priabin guarded, he did not have him removed to a cell. Nor handed back to
Serov.
As if he wanted Priabin to see him succeed, witness every foment of
Lightning.
And yet it seemed that Rodin himself was Ptagued by something other than the launch. His son, Priabin sus-^cted. He did not wish to hear about him, he was able for long foments to ignore his son's death, but the thought seemed to keep burning to him.
Priabin turned to look across the room toward Serov's windows.
The security monitoring unit of mission control was raised above the main floor. A row of tinted windows. He could see nothing more than occasional shadows passing back and forth behind the glass. He had not prevented Serov from continuing the search for Gant. Rodin had ignored—or suppressed—what he had said concerning the GRU colonel's murder of his son. Perhaps the idea cast doubt on too many of Rodin's unthinking beliefs?
He turned back. Rodin had left his glass booth and was walking toward him and his guard, who snapped to attention. Priabin was immediately attentive. Rodin's walk was stiff, paradelike, as if he were too aware that others were watching him. Yet he barely acknowledged the smiles and salutes that hemmed him like a corridor. He marched directly toward Priabin, halting in front of him.
He paused only to wave the guard aside. "Come," he ordered. There appeared little strength in his voice. Priabin walked at his side.
They mounted the steps between the amphitheatrical ranks of consoles and their operators. Instructions, repeated acknowledgments, orders, measurements hummed around them. It was difficult to catch what Rodin was saying in a quiet, unfamiliar voice. Priabin strained to hear.
". . a
priority message—came two hours ago . . . didn't regard it as important, only ]ust read it—wife. ..." The telemetry, the countdown, the shuttle's status, the voice of the mission
commander
as he boarded the craft, rising and falling like waves. Priabin could not believe what he heard; more, could not believe the voice in which the information was relayed to him. The launch became unimportant. ". . . hospital, suffering from an overdose—my wife?" The tone of querulous inquiry was hard to accept as real. ". . . took sleeping pills—rushed her to hospital . . . critical, they say . .
Priabin halted beside Rodin at the top of the steps.
Cigarette
smoke hung heavily there, despite the air-conditioning. The
noises
of the room were murmurous, oppressive, as was its
temperature.
Incredible. Rodin seemed out of his depth. Stunned and
incapable.
Priabin glanced quickly toward the tinted windows of the
security
room. Now, now he could finish Serov, with Rodin in his
present
state of numbed shock. Now.
Something started him into wakefulness. Drugged as he
seemed, he
knew immediately he must make no noise.
He
rubbed his face roughly, cleared his eyes into focus. Pale light from the low moon illuminated the doors of the hangar and the UAZ still parked in front of them. And the opening of the small door and the form of one of the GRU men coming through it; eating and stretching luxuriously.
The bleep of the radio's signal had summoned the man and awakened Gant. A tinny voice succeeded the signal, which had itself sounded impatient. The voice was sharp and near on the icy air. The wind appeared to have dropped, as clouds galleoned slowly across the stars.
He listened. The tractor's rusty red body and huge rear wheels masked him even more effectively than the shadows of the pines beneath which he sat, wrapped in the folds of the parka, hood over his head and face. He had eaten the chocolate and crackers from the emergency rations, kept the stale taste of inactivity and impending defeat from his mouth with the water bottle. Ordinary, ludicrous things. He had done them because there was nothing else; he could not kill them and give the alarm, he could not reach the Antonov, he could not fit the battery, he could not fill the chemical tank with fuel, he could not tow it to the fuel dump by using the tractor— which others had used, its towbar indicated. The pieces of the puzzle lay about him and he knew its solution; but was powerless to act.
As he listened, he looked at his watch. Just before two in the morning. The guards called in or were called every thirty minutes. Routine. No one seemed to want to move them on. He had taken up his position beside the tractor because from it he could watch the road to the collective, the sky to the north from which direction the gunships would come, and the hangar and the UAZ. Only the battery was charging; that was the only progression.
The guard was almost forty yards away, yet he caught nearly every word spoken.
". . .as the grave, sir. Sure. Oh, yes, we've patrolled regularly." They hadn't left the comparative warmth of the hangar except to call
ln
or to answer a call. Once, one of them had come through the small door, urinated briefly against the hangar wall, presumably because he couldn't locate the toilet inside, and hurried back in out of the cold. They had kept the lights switched off, as he had heard them ordered to do. Flashlight beams had flickered in there from time to time. "Matter of fact, that's why I was a bit late, sir—just finished my patrol . . . nothing doing, sir—picked the wrong . . . Ves, sir, of course, sir." Gant felt
himself
drawn into the
one
-sided conversation, as into warm sleep. He
rubbed
his arms, waking himself. "Me, sir? Back on patrol, leave the private here, sir—yes, sir.
w
The corporal actually stood to attention for a moment before he flung the microphone back into the vehicle with a muttered curse. He opened the judas door and bellowed: "You jammy bastard, get out here! Come on, move it!"
"Corp—" Gant heard from inside.
"Don't corp me, you lucky sod. I'm to go back on routine patrol, son, while you take time out here smoking fags and guzzling vodka."
"Sorry, corp—"
"You will be, son, you will be," the corporal murmured, leaning over the other soldier. "Right, I'll be back in an hour. I'll leave the walkie-talkie with you. Make sure you keep in touch. And make sure you do the patrols, my son—understand?"
"Yes, corp."
"Jammy bastard."
Gant watched as the corporal climbed into the UAZ and started the engine. It roared in the silence, then the vehicle moved off quickly, churning up dust, squealing along the track toward the collective, its headlights bucking and bouncing like a runaway horse. Its engine noise faded. The private raised two fingers vigorously, twice, then turned back to the judas door. He paused, then ducked his head and reentered the hangar, closing the door behind him.
Gant's hands jumped and twitched with tension-becoming-excitement. He climbed awkwardly to his feet, stamping them
at
once to rid his legs of cramp and cold. He wasn't tired now. He had no further time to waste. Two o'clock. His hand banged the
tractor's
huge rear tire like the shoulder of an old friend.
Crouching, he moved swifdy across the forty yards of open ground to the side of the hangar, the Makarov ready in his
right
hand in case.