by Gar Wilson
Annotation
Russian scientists have perfected a virus that will make them the top players in the deadly game of germ warfare. But there is a big problem: it's been stolen. Only when the Soviets realize their deadly secret can be used against their own people do they alert Western leaders. Phoenix Force is ordered to help the KGB recover — and destroy — the formula.
Without knowing who is friend or foe, the Force travels from the hills of central Asia to the crowded streets of Hong Kong. If the formula isn't found, few will be left to mourn the dead.
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Gar Wilson
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Gar Wilson
Weep, Moscow, Weep
Special thanks and acknowledgment to William Fieldhouse for his contribution to this work.
1
Professor Aleksandr Mikhalivich Stolyarov removed a cigarette case from his coat pocket as he gazed up at the night sky. The Mongolian sky was different from the Russian sky, Stolyarov decided. At least it didn't look like the night sky he was accustomed to in Moscow and Leningrad. There were no streetlights, airport searchlights or pollution from factories and automobiles to distort its blackness.
The stars were magnificent. Stolyarov wished he knew more about astronomy. The state education department had recognized his aptitude for chemistry when Stolyarov was a teenager, and his studies in science had concentrated in this area. Chemistry was practical, but astronomy had a romantic appeal. Space was the last great challenge for mankind, the last uncharted region for exploration.
Stolyarov recognized the North Star, and Ursa Minor and Ursa Major — the Little Bear and the Great Bear. Every Russian knew these constellations. Stolyarov had no idea what the other star formations might be, but still, he appreciated the beauty of the celestial display. The full moon dominated the velvet sky. Its round pockmarked surface reminded Stolyarov of his late father's face. His father had been a hero during the Second World War. Stolyarov recalled how he had spoken about the battles against the Germans. The Nazis had been better armed than the Russians, with far more tanks and heavy artillery than the Red Army. Stolyarov's father had seen thousands of Russian soldiers fall in battle. It had seemed the Germans would never be stopped, but the Russian front had held firm and had eventually begun to wear down the Nazis.
Stolyarov's father had also marched into Berlin. He had spoken fondly of the American soldiers. They had sung and danced with the Russian troops. The Americans had had wonderful cigarettes, which they had traded for good Russian vodka. He had said the Americans were generous and brave.
"They are very much like we Russians," his father had claimed. "Don't believe everything the Communist Party tells you about Americans. Politicians are always telling lies. That is their nature."
Stolyarov's father had only said these things when he was certain his words would not reach the ears of the NKVD, the secret police under Stalin. There was much fear in the Soviet Union during Stalin's reign. When he died, many Russians, including Stolyarov's father, had hoped to see great changes in the Soviet Union. Some changes had occurred, but they were mostly cosmetic.
During the Khrushchev years, it became clear that the Politburo was one of the true powers that ruled the Soviet Union. The Politburo and the Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti — the Committee of State Security — ruled together. The KGB was simply another version of the NKVD. The state controlled everything and decided the future of the citizens. Stolyarov's ability in mathematics and his aptitude for formulas had gotten him a fine education in a university in Leningrad where he had later become a state research chemist.
The system had not treated Stolyarov badly. He had enjoyed privileges beyond those granted to most Soviet citizens. He had a car and a television set, and he did not have to stand in line to get coffee, chicken or cheese. His wife could afford new clothes every spring, and his children never went hungry. This was the good life in the Soviet Union. Stolyarov doubted that it was any better anywhere else, so he was fairly satisfied with his life. His work was interesting, even if he had to accept the restrictions and directives placed upon him by the state.
However, Stolyarov did not like his new assignment, a posting to a tiny installation in a remote area of the Mongolian People's Republic. There were jokes about being sent to "outer Mongolia." It was not as bad as being sent to Siberia. Russians do not joke about being sent to Siberia.
Stolyarov missed his family. He lit a cigarette and stared up at the moon. His father had been dead for more than a decade. Stolyarov had loved his father, and he knew that, while the old man would not have approved of the sort of work he was doing at the installation, he would have understood why he was doing it. The government made the rules, and men like Stolyarov had to follow them.
"Aleksandr," Professor Voroshilov called as he passed the guards at the entrance of the building. "I have found you at last. You know Captain Zagorsky doesn't like us leaving the building without telling him. He thinks the bandits in the hills are religious fanatics who sacrifice Russian captives to Buddha and indulge in cannibalistic feasts afterward."
"Zagorsky is a pig," Stolyarov muttered as he finished his cigarette and tossed the butt to the ground.
"Of course," Voroshilov agreed with a grin. "He's KGB. What do you expect? But he's still in charge of security. The captain wants to talk to us about the VL-800 formula."
"Vacpalenee Lagkech 800." Stolyarov shook his head. "Remember how it started? We were supposed to develop a new antibiotic and instead we produced a monster."
"Nasty business," Voroshilov said with a shrug. "Chemical-biological weapons are just another evil of the twentieth century. If the Americans didn't make such things, we wouldn't have to either. Just as we wouldn't have to aim thousands of nuclear missiles at New York and Washington. It's all part of state defense."
"That's what I've been told," Stolyarov sighed.
"Politics doesn't make much sense, my friend," Voroshilov admitted. "But I suppose the world couldn't get along without it."
"It might not be able to get along much longer with it," Stolyarov commented. "Nuclear missiles, killer lasers, chemical-biological weapons and God knows what else, all in the hands of the politicians. How long before they wind up destroying the entire planet? Why are we doing this? How did it all start?"
"Like you said," Voroshilov said, grinning. "God knows. Don't use that expression around Zagorsky, though. He doesn't believe in God. Just in the Kremlin. His prayers must be very simple: 'Please, Kremlin, don't have my friends from the KGB put bullets in my head.'"
Stolyarov laughed. He liked Voroshilov, and he wished he could share the older man's nonchalant attitude about world politics and the morality of devising weapons that would kill millions of people. Voroshilov placed a hand on Stolyarov's shoulder.
"Let's go see what the captain wants," he urged. "Maybe Zagorsky had a religious vision last night. Perhaps Karl Marx came to him in a dream or something like that."
The chemists returned to the building. The two guards snapped to attention. They were Soviet soldiers, officially assigned to protect the research personnel from the Mongolian bandits who supposedly lurked in the mountain range to the west. Of course, the soldiers were also there to help Zagorsky keep a careful watch on the chemists. Stolyarov thought this was a
bit silly. Did the KGB think any Russian citizen would defect to Mongolia? The Mongolian government was owned and operated by the Kremlin. Why defect to an underdeveloped country that was virtually an extension of the USSR? It would be like defecting to the Ukraine.
Of course, as the installation was less than a hundred kilometers from the Chinese border, Stolyarov could understand why the KGB might worry about Chinese agents spying on them, but it was absurd to think a Russian citizen would willingly defect to the People's Republic of China. The Chinese could not even decide what sort of government they really wanted. Mao had been a treacherous, ruthless bastard, but at least he had been devoutly Communist and had not tried to pretend to be anything else. The current leaders in China were also Communists, but they were making changes that smelled of capitalism. Stolyarov did not understand this. Like most Russians, he distrusted the Chinese. The USSR and China had been close allies immediately after the Second World War, but the relationship had decayed into bitter distrust and resentment. Historians suggested several reasons for this, but Stolyarov accepted the Russian explanation: the Chinese were to blame.
Stolyarov and Voroshilov entered the building. The bored sergeant sitting at the front desk glanced up at the chemists and nodded. The sergeant knew they were civilians and that neither man was part of the power structure of the Communist Party, so he did not have to jump up and stiffen his body like a board every time they approached.
The chemists walked to Captain Zagorsky's office. Lieutenant Pasternak, Zagorsky's second-in-command, stood by the door. A hard-faced young KGB junior officer, Pasternak always wore a twisted smile as if he was enjoying some sadist's private joke. Stolyarov had always suspected that Pasternak had been selected as Zagorsky's aide because he was a psychotic and would have no qualms about murdering the chemists in cold blood if they refused to obey orders.
"They're here, Captain," Pasternak announced, turning toward Zagorsky, who sat at his desk inside the office.
"Show them in, Lieutenant," Zagorsky replied. "And close the door."
Captain Zagorsky looked up from his desk and smiled. Stolyarov considered the KGB captain to be one of the most repellent men he had ever met. Zagorsky's small eyes were lost behind squinted lids, and he had a wide mouth like that of a toad. Zagorsky rested his elbows on the desktop and interlaced his fingers.
"I trust you gentlemen had a productive day," the captain remarked. "How is the VL-800 project coming along?"
"We have more than fifty liters at this time," Voroshilov answered.
"Very good," Zagorsky said with a nod. "We will transport twenty-five liters to Ulan Bator. Please prepare it for shipping."
"Where is the VL-800 going?" Stolyarov inquired.
"That is none of your concern, Professor," Zagorsky replied in a hard voice.
"I disagree, Comrade Captain."
"Aleksandr," Voroshilov began, his tone urgent. "The captain is in charge of these matters..."
"Captain Zagorsky is with the Committee for State Security," Stolyarov stated. "The security of the Soviet people is of vital interest to us all, but I understand the last shipment of VL-800 was sent to Siberia."
"Who told you this, Professor?" Zagorsky asked, pursing his rubbery lips.
"I overheard one of your people talking about it, Captain," Stolyarov answered. "The individual also mentioned that tests would be conducted on dissidents at a labor camp."
"Captain?" Lieutenant Pasternak, his hand resting on the butt of the pistol on his hip, waited for a command.
"Relax, Lieutenant," Zagorsky said. "Professor Stolyarov has heard an unfortunate rumor."
"Then the VL-800 isn't being used on dissidents?" the chemist inquired.
"Where the formula goes and what it is used for is none of my concern, Professor," the KGB officer insisted. "Nor is it yours. Personally, I have no sympathy with dissidents. They are traitors attempting to disrupt our way of life in the Soviet Union. They are puppets of capitalist troublemakers and enemies of the state."
"Everyone is supposed to work equally and receive equal treatment and an equal share of the nation's wealth. That's how communism works, isn't it, Captain? But that doesn't always happen here," Stolyarov argued.
"The State has treated you well, Professor," Zagorsky said. "I suggest you be glad that you're not treated 'equally.' I'm certain your wife and children are delighted."
"Perhaps," Stolyarov agreed. "But there is no need to test the VL-800 formula."
"Then the rumor you heard is probably false," Zagorsky said with a shrug.
"Of course, if a dissident died from exposure to VL-800," Stolyarov continued, "an autopsy would diagnose the cause of death as pneumonia. Hardly remarkable for prisoners in a Siberian labor camp to die of pneumonia. The victims could be given medication, which wouldn't save them, but it would give the impression that everything possible had been done to try and save them."
"Then the bodies of the dissidents could be handed over to the United Nations, where doctors from Western democracies could examine them," Zagorsky said, smiling. "And we could get away with murder, eh? You ought to write mystery stories, Professor. What an active imagination you have for a scientist."
"Imagination is an asset to a scientist, Captain," Stolyarov replied. "It is our substitute for a conscience, but some of us have that, too."
"Rein in your... imagination, Professor," the KGB officer warned, his eyes cold behind hard slits. "And don't worry about what the State does with VL-800. Perhaps it is going to Siberia. Perhaps not. That isn't your problem... unless you decide to make a problem for yourself. I'm sure you'd prefer that VL-800 be sent to Siberia rather than your."
"We'll start packing the twenty-five liters, Captain," Voroshilov interceded quickly.
"Do that," Zagorsky said with a nod. "And talk to your friend about the realities of life. Warn him that careless talk can cause problems with the State, and I'm sure he doesn't want to do that. It is improper behavior for a citizen of the Soviet Socialist Republics."
"I'll talk to him, Comrade Captain," Voroshilov assured the KGB officer. "And I ask that you please consider that we have been under considerable stress here. I know you have also, Captain Zagorsky, but you're a soldier, trained to deal with assignments that take you far from home. Aleksandr has never been outside the Soviet Union before. He has never been separated from his family for any length of time. He is a fine scientist and a loyal citizen of the USSR. He's simply feeling isolated, and his imagination is becoming overactive."
"I see," Zagorsky said, smiling. "Do you see this as an accurate explanation for your behavior, Professor Stolyarov?"
"Yes, comrade," Stolyarov answered, aware he was inviting danger by questioning the activities of the Soviet government or the KGB. "I apologize for my outburst."
"Apology accepted," Captain Zagorsky assured him. "Now get to work. I'll send some soldiers along to help you with the task."
* * *
The guards did not see or hear anything until it was too late. Black shapes suddenly materialized from the shadows. The soldiers fumbled with their Kalashnikov assault rifles, desperately trying to unsling straps from their shoulders. A long steel blade flashed. The sharp edge struck one guard in the side of the neck. Metal cut deep and severed the carotid artery and jugular. Blood splashed from the terrible wound as the soldier fell.
The other guard lived a few seconds longer. He had nearly unslung his weapon when a hand seized the barrel and shoved it back against the soldier's throat. He saw a face — impassive features, almond-shaped eyes above a flat nose. A knife blade plunged into the guard's solar plexus. He opened his mouth to scream, but a gloved hand muffled his voice. The knife thrust upward and pierced his heart. He lost consciousness as the assassin shoved him to the ground. The soldier died quickly, an expression of helplessness and terror frozen on his face.
A puttylike substance was placed against the doorjamb above the knob. More figures in black appeared. Some had crimson stains on their clothing.
There had been two other sentries on duty.
One of the men inserted a blasting cap in the putty. The others stood clear of the door. The explosives expert merely turned his face away from the door when he pressed the plunger on an electrical squib that was attached to the blasting cap by copper wires. He was accustomed to handling plastique and knew the blast would be sufficient to blow the door's lock but would not extend beyond that to threaten the assault team.
The explosion burned off the lock and threw open the door. The sergeant stationed at the desk cried out with surprise. He yanked open a desk drawer and reached for a Makarov pistol. His boot slid under the desk, searching for the button mounted on the floor.
An Asian appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in black. Gloved hands were fisted around the butt of a pistol with a nine-inch sound suppressor attached to the barrel. The gunman aimed his weapon at the sergeant's face. The soldier desperately clawed at the Makarov in the desk drawer and tried to duck at the same time. The silenced pistol coughed twice. The sergeant's head recoiled from the impact of slugs through the forehead. As he slid from the chair, his boot found the button.
Sirens wailed a frantic warning to the personnel within the installation. Three soldiers quickly charged to the front entrance. Two carried AK-47 assault rifles. The third man, a lieutenant in the Soviet infantry, unsheathed his Makarov from its holster as they approached the door. The desk sergeant's corpse was draped over the desk. His brains still oozed from his shattered skull.
"Check on the sentries," the lieutenant instructed one of his men. The door was closed, but the damage to the lock was obvious. "Be careful."
"Yes, sir," the soldier replied.
"Cover him," the officer told the other trooper. "I'll watch the corridor. The bastards must still be in the building — whoever they are."
The first soldier carefully eased open the door. Peering inside, he saw nothing but darkness. He glanced down and gasped. The bloody bodies of the two guards lay inches from the tip of his boot. The trooper opened the door wider.