"Dick, don't say that. The man got out of Baikonur in an airplane—now how the hell did he do that? He could—"
But Gunther was shaking his head. "They can't afford to let him."
"He has to stay alive. He has to make it—for Christ's sake, we can't lift a finger to help the guy!"
"Not unless you want to start the next war."
Calvin nodded absently. "I realize that, Dick," he murmured. "At least"—he looked up, grinning suddenly before his face reas-sumed its solemn expression—"part of me does. OK, we can't go after Gant. But we can have people on the border, right on the border, and we can be watching from the air. What do we have up?"
"AWACS is watching the whole thing."
"Good. Then I have to talk to the Turkish president right away."
"We anticipated that, Mr. President."
"Right, then let's be clear what we're talking about here. We have to enlist the aid of one of our NATO allies . . . wait.
Would
they cross into . . . ?"
Gunther looked gloomy. "They want him awful bad," was all he said.
Calvin rubbed his hair.
"Then I have to prepare one of our allies for a possible
Soviet
troop incursion into their territory—if Gant makes it that far.
God
knows what I tell the Turkish president." He was pacing the room urgently, as if attempting to walk off the last lingerings of the Valium; or of fear. "Ten miles—maybe as little as that?" Gunther nodded. Calvin turned slowly, looking at the room as if it were some kind of command center reflecting the powers of his office. And shook his head. "All we can do is make sure we're there to meet him, if he gets out. And he has the proof we need." The tone was singular, not plural. He felt a thrill of enraged frustration that deepened almost at once into fear. He was racked by hope and terror. The proof I need, the proof, he heard again and again in his head. The proof I need.
"Mr. President?" Gunther began.
"Yes, yes, I'm coming. Give me just a moment to dress."
Tree line.
The tree line was what had saved him, he admitted once more. Temporarily saved him; just as it temporarily concealed him.
His back was against a rock, he was sitting hunched on pine needles. The snow was patchy beneath the trees, much of the forest floor tinder-dry. He held the small glasses he had taken from the Antonov to his eyes, and watched them moving below, around, opposite. All of them . . .
... all of them
spetsnaz
, experts.
The morning was icy cold and clean. Sound was restricted to the occasional crackle of a distant radio or transceiver carried on the sharp air, and the throb of troop helicopters and gunships winding through the mountains or floating above the wide plain of Ararat. Beyond the troops and the machines hanging in the air and the occasional fattening stripe of a vapor trail, he could see Turkey in the distance, where the landscape seemed cardboard and flat through the glasses. The twin peaks that dominated the plain to the west were those of Mt. Ararat, in Armenia—Turkish Armenia. Gant knew that from the pages of the school atlas. And knew little more than that.
Far below, the main road paralleled the border. To the northeast, a haze of industry hung where the city of Yerevan must be. Snow, brown flanks, foothills, the wide plain, and the river Araks, followed in swift, blurred succession as he swung the glasses down. He was in the niche of border between three countries.
Spetsnaz ...
He involuntarily looked at his watch. The sleeve of the parka crackled with dried, half-frozen snow melt as he tugged it back from his wrist. Nine-fifteen. Just over an hour since he had bailed out. And they had attempted to obliterate him with rocket fire from the first of the gunships to reach him. Had he been able to control the chute as well as he would have chosen—he would have struck the snow of the plain dead. In pieces; burning rags of clothing and flesh hanging loosely from the cords of the chute. He shivered, and was chilled through.
The shallow crevasse had saved his life. Trees had beckoned below, and he'd struggled feverishly down the precipitous slope, coughing and spitting out melted snow, banging against rocks, tripping often. Then he'd reached the first stunted trees, rolling over and over beneath them until a slim bole winded him and fetched him up half lying, half sitting, breath heaving. It had taken them three quarters of an hour to land the
spetsnaz
troops or parachute them in. In that time, he had worked his way farther down the mountain, beneath the thickening, stronger trees. To wait, and recover. Now he must move again.
He raised the glasses. A slow vapor trail streaked the sky to the west, across the border in Turkey. As if it were some kind of signal that they had received his Mayday call.
A gunship slid up the side of the mountain, dragging its shadow like a cloak across the
snow.
Irrelevant. They couldn't find him, not beneath the tree cover. The
spetsnaz
could—
—and would.
They worked, like most special forces, in four-man units. Or, as now, in multiples of four. And in touch with each other. They could napalm the mountainside from gunships or MiGs, but he knew they wouldn't. They had to be sure, positively sure, he had died. They wanted the cassettes that were the evidence, and they wanted the body. Perhaps most of all that. They wanted the body, to be certain.
It was time to move. To survive. The nearest troops that he could see were perhaps four or five hundred yards away, below and to his left, trudging up a snow-hidden track, backs bent, guns clearly visible. A four-man unit.
Far below and across the plain, a train appeared as if sliding wormlike out of the undulating earth, smoke billowing up into the air. Railway, road, river; border. Open country. Gant rose onto one knee.
They were toiling alertly up the slope where the trees
opened
out to reveal a winding track. Rifles slung across their chests—-new
AK-74s, not like the old Kalashnikov he held in his hands—packs, camouflage overalls; other weapons—a Dragunov snipers rifle carried by the sergeant, and slung at one trooper's side, an RPG-7 rocket launcher. If they found only the remaining bits of him, it would be enough.
Four hundred yards.
Everything had become simple, even stark. They wanted him dead, and the proof recovered. He was the only fly in their ointment. He wanted to survive. Even the proof and their concern over it were unimportant. There was only their need to kill him and his desire for survival. Which made the sighting through the foresight's cylinder and the open, U-shaped notch of the rearsight easy, almost like squinting into a small telescope. And made the metal of the unfolded stock as comfortable as that of a favorite hunting rifle. Single shot.
Once, twice, three times.
Surprise, although half expected, although their nerves were alert. Heads up for an instant before the inertia of training and experience threw their bodies aside from the track toward rocks or tree boles. Enough surprise for one of the camouflaged bodies to fall awkwardly and roll over, and for a second to have to lunge limpingly toward cover. The fourth, fifth, and sixth rounds missed. He quite clearly saw snow plucked up by each of the bullets.
Then he moved, farther back into the trees and to his right, body bent and weaving below and around stinging branches. Ten seconds, eleven, twelve—
They were good. Behind him, trees shuddered and split and became engulfed in fire as the projectile from the RPG-7 struck and detonated with a roar. He felt the shock wave slap at his back. One dead, a second out of the hunt, the hornet's nest stirred with the long stick of violence. He rushed on, thin branches whipping at him, the rifle swinging rhythmically back and forth across his chest, the pack containing the film and video cassettes banging softly, familiarly on his lower back. He was running north.
Above the noise of his breathing, he heard one of the gunships drive in toward the trees behind him. Noise, then light flashing on the snow lying on the branches over his head. Fierce orange light like a winter sunrise. They'd used the RPG-7's hit as a marker and demolished the immediate area around it. He stopped, and had to lean against a tree to control the shaking of his body. He turned, reluctantly.
A fire seared and glowed like the mouth of a furnace perhaps three or four hundred yards away. He felt the shock wave ebbing through the forest and through his body. His heart continued to pound. The glow began to subside but, higher up, the branches were on fire. Resinous, smoky scent, licking flame. A marker, a signal—here he is, come and get him.
Beneath the trees he was safe—no, just safer. He concentrated, remembering the scene through the glasses like a map now glanced at. He had to go down, eventually. They'd know that. And they had maps. They'd know the tracks, all the routes down; the possible, the dangerous, the impossible. The light was dying on the glinting snow above his head. The gunships rotors beat farther off now, a painter standing back from a completed canvas. The
spetsnaz
troops would be moving again, up toward the outcrop he had occupied and where the fire still burned.
He turned away, his breathing under control, his heart quieter. The adrenaline surged. Ducking low, he once more began running, his feet crackling like flames across dead pine needles.
Priabin hit the guard clumsily. His arms flailed again and again once the first blow had been struck because the guard still had hold of the rifle—it could not be tugged from his grasp—and the barrel kept straining toward Priabin's stomach. The guard's body banged against the metal of the double doors behind him. His face registered pain, but had moved out of shock into malevolence, fear for his life.
Again, again—face, chest, arms, most of the blows doing little damage. His knuckles numbly hurting, blood on them.
The guard slumped down the doors into an awkward sitting position, loosening his grip on the rifle and moaning softly just once. After that, the only sound was Priabin's harsh breathing,
snatched
between the sucking of his bruised and skinned knuckles. He was bent almost double with the effort he had undergone.
He glanced to either end of the alleyway between the main assembly building and a low shed with a corrugated roof and breeze-way still plain beneath stained whitewash. If there was anyone, if they had heard the banging against the door—?
. . . just caught short—have to go here, OK?
The guard had followed him, amused. He had had to force a conversation with the man, through nerves and the mounting fear of the proximity of the guard and his rifle . . .
where did you say they were keeping that poor bastard? Kedrov the spy
y
yes that's him
... He had foolishly repeated every word the guard had uttered, as if to memorize
a
complicated sequence of instructions. A thin stream of urine. The biting cold of the midday air because he wasn't wearing an overcoat or cap or gloves. He finished urinating. Knew he could simply go back inside and wait for the inevitable—the unavoidable. He had turned to the guard, zipping his trousers, smiling awkwardly. Rifle, guard nodding, his bulk larger than Priabin's.
The EVA was over, the crew was back aboard
Kutuzov.
The shut-de had used its small clusters of rockets to move away from the laser weapon. Firing of the rocket of the PAM was thirty minutes away. The countdown was at two hours.
He had lashed out at the guard's chin and missed, grazing the reacting man's ear. Moved, hit again and again, wresded with the gun . . .
Two hours. At the end of that time the laser battle station would have achieved its thousand mile-high orbit above the pole and would have been aligned on its target,
Atlantis.
Rodin would commence the firing sequence and the American shuttle would be vaporized. It would disappear. And, and . . . unthinkable.
He had not intended action. He was deeply frightened now that he had done so. The guard seemed to be snoring in his unconsciousness, his face chilly with cold, his hands slackly on the rifle. Priabin snatched at it, unhooking its strap from around the man's neck. The guard's head flopped horridly, as if he were dead. Priabin flinched away from him. He had not intended—but the tension had mounted in him because of his inactivity.
The scheme was patchy. It involved Kedrov, it involved stopping the firing of the weapon. He could do nothing else, stop nothing except the firing sequence. Kedrov had to know how it could be done. If he did not, then—
Priabin looked down at the guard. Irrevocable. He was committed now. He shivered with reaction, gripping the rifle tightly, squeezing its warmed metal. Glanced to either end of the alley in a panicky, sweaty haste. His body felt hot now. He had to rid himself of the guard, put him, tie him—where?
He rolled the guard away from the double doors with his foot. If seemed a huge effort. He needed a vehicle to get to GRU headquarters, he needed a means of entering that place, he needed, he
deeded—
—to get the guard out of sight, don't think ahead, just do this, do this—-come on, come on, break! He twisted the folding stock of the AKMS in the chain and padlock. Sweat sheened his forehead, his muscles had no strength, the flimsy chain seemed insuperable . . . and parted slowly, with a slight creak like the opening of a window.