Winter Hawk mg-3

by Thomas Craig

  Rodin was still, but his body seemed to sway minutely.

  Adopt revenge as the motive, Priabin told himself coldly. Just get rid of Serov, you can't control anything more than that. Get rid of Serov.

  The door opened. Serov entered, his features impassive. Rodin turned toward him, with the clockwork movement of an automaton. Had Serov heard? The man's face betrayed nothing but urgency, his own security concerns.

  "Comrade General," he said deferentially, "we must have these operating consoles, the computer map. The search is being hampered while we are excluded from this room, comrade General."

  The silence thudded in Priabin's ears. Rodin stared at Serov without moving. Then he turned his face toward Priabin. His eyes were bleak gray pebbles, his lips compressed into a straight, expressionless line. Priabin saw the turmoil for an instant, reflected in a tic at the corner of Rodin's mouth. Then it seemed his will was able to still that involuntary reaction, because it ceased almost as soon as it appeared.

  Eventually, he looked at Serov and said: "Very well. Find him— find that American."

  "We will, General, we will."

  "Be certain you do, Serov." Rodin turned suddenly to Priabin and snapped: "Colonel Priabin, come with me now."

  "But, General—

  "Be silent, Serov. The colonel is now my prisoner."

  Gant waved the shrouded lamp over his wrist. Midnight. Then, once more, he dipped the lamp into the blackness of the chemical tank in the Antonov's cabin. Dry, clean, no residual scent of the crop-dusting chemicals they had used the previous season. He nodded vigorously. It would work, just so long as he could fuel up the airplane. It would work, he reiterated to convince himself. The chemical tank had about a three hundred-gallon capacity; greater than the Antonov's upper-wing fuel tanks. He assessed the aircraft's range at perhaps as much as five hundred miles. With the chemical tank filled with aviation fuel, he would more than double that range.

  Eleven hundred miles. Pakistan or Turkey. Across the border. His chest was tight with excitement as he once more recited the figures. His body felt warmed by self-satisfaction.

  The wing tanks were full. All he required was to find the fuel store. It must be outside the hangar. He hadn't seen it on his approach. It had to be behind the hangar, out in the dark where the dirt runway undoubtedly was. His imagination reached out, and faltered. He couldn't get the airplane out of the hangar unless he started up the engine. That noise might bring—

  — and he wouldn't have time to fuel up the chemical tank if he aroused interest.

  He stood up in a crouch and climbed out of the cabin, the lead for the lamp dropping noisily onto the concrete as he jumped down. He couldn't check the flaps because they operated electrically. He'd checked everything that worked by cable, mechanically — the rudder, the ailerons, the flying controls. Checked the oil levels, the maps in the cockpit. Sat in the pilot's seat, sensing the separate, familiar life of the Antonov; sensing, too, its resemblance to that nrst crop duster. Familiarity had been a small victory. He had jettisoned as much from the cabin as he could — most of the cabin lining, stowed equipment, the noise-reducing plywood of the fuselage walls. He had checked each of the repair cards. The Antonov would fly, but only for five hundred miles until he found extra fuel. Half the way home.

  … like repairing a bicycle, kid.

  The memory made him grin involuntarily. He'd said that twenty-five years ago as he let Gant help him service the crop duster, after their first flight together. Gant had checked the pressure in the Antonov's tires and remembered the words. Like repairing a bicycle, kid.

  He switched off the lamp, and crossed the now-familiar hangar in pale moonlight. He opened the judas door and stepped through it. He shivered in the icy cold, came more awake. He hunched into the folds of the parka, its hood dragged over his head, and rounded the side of the hangar. The wind howled in pursuit. He ran.

  The battery needed perhaps two, three more hours to be fully charged. He could not cut it finer, dare not. If he drained the battery trying to start the engine, he was lost. Fuel was the necessity.

  Wire, a small compound, tarpaulin. He sucked in air greedily, his teeth set in what might have been a grin. He rattled the lock. He needed something to cut the chain or snap the lock — have to go back. He bent down and studied the anonymous, heaped shape that was the outline of the tarpaulin. It was loosely fixed, great gusts of wind rippling it like the back of an aggressive animal. Flaps of it flew and cracked. He waited, the tension coming back into his frame. turbine fuel… He held his breath and waited for the wind to reveal the drum once more, reveal the stenciled Cyrillic lettering stamped on it. Eventually, turbine fuel appeared. By the size of the tarpaulin, there had to be in the region of thirty drums beneath its cover. He rose and looked at the wire fence. Pointless to climb, he had to open the gates. Smash the lock. The thought of the small violence satisfied him.

  He had found the fuel he needed. If he employed the pump on the chemical tank to feed the fuel via a hose to the wing tanks, the whole jury-rig would work; it would work. He turned away from the rattling tarpaulin toward the hangar. Twelve-ten. By four, then, with luck…

  He listened intently, saliva filling his mouth. He wasn't mis* taken. He knew the wind was carrying the noise of an approaching engine. He cocked his head to one side. Small vehicle by the noise-Coming closer. He ran scuttling toward the side of the hangar. As the moon slid behind a great billow of cloud, he saw headlights bouncing crazily as the vehicle followed the undulating dirt track from the collective. Light splashed on the firs, on the hangar. He crouched in the shadows.

  The engine noise died. He heard the brake cranking on. Heard voices, two of them, even one man's luxurious yawn, the others comment on the chill of the night. One of the men rattled the doors of the hangar, the others voice disappeared into a muffled distance — Christ, as if he were going to walk right around the hangar! The rifle was in the hangar — Gant grabbed at his pockets frantically. Found the Makarov pistol he'd snatched up in the MiL's cabin, eased a round into the chamber, holding his breath at the magnified noise of the action. Christ—

  … aircraft in here?" he heard.

  "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 pointing 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 remain
ing 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, luxuriating 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 Raketoplans 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 and 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 suspected. 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 just 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 co
llective, 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 in 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… Yes, 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.