by Dave Edlund
Every person had been searched, and their keys, wallets, cell phones, and money were all taken and placed in a rucksack stashed underneath the desk where Gorev sat. Soon all the hostages had found a seat, forming small clusters around the room. Conversation was sporadic; voices were hushed.
Peter was carefully scrutinizing their guards. The number of guards was frequently changing as men would enter and leave. Peter thought he had counted seven unique faces, but he could not distinguish any unit patches or rank badges on the uniforms.
Abruptly Peter stood and walked toward General Gorev, only to be quickly intercepted by one of the guards. With an AK-74 poking Peter in the belly, the message was clear though no words were spoken. He returned and dropped into a chair next to his father.
Ian Savage leaned close to his son and spoke in a low voice. “Be careful. Don’t antagonize these men.”
Peter nodded almost imperceptibly, although his tense posture and stern expression told Ian that he did not fully accept his advice.
Gary scooted his chair so it was just to the right and behind Peter. He bent over pretending to adjust the laces on his shoes. “You’re up to something; I know it. You didn’t really leave your passport at the hotel, did you?”
“It’s in my boot.” Peter whispered and tapped one foot against the other.
Gary surreptitiously glanced at Peter’s brown-leather motorcycle boots. “Anything else hidden in there?”
At first Peter didn’t answer. He turned his head and body slowly, scanning around the room and taking in both the hostages and the militiamen. At the moment, no one was paying any particular attention to the Americans.
Eyes still flitting around the room, he said, “A composite Zytel-ceramic blade.”
“Jim taught you well.”
At the mention of his friend, Commander James Nicolaou, Peter felt a minute uplift to his spirits. Soon enough, Peter reasoned, the news of the pro-Russian militia taking over the BSU campus and, most likely, other government buildings, would leak out to the world press. But it would still be days before anyone in the U.S. government knew that Americans were among the hostages. And how long would it take for Special Forces to rescue them? Days? Perhaps weeks?
Dmitri was silent—his head down and hands folded on his lap. To Peter, he appeared resigned to their fate.
“Professor Kaspar,” Peter said, modulating his voice to avoid attention.
He raised his head and looked at Peter.
“Some of your colleagues were in their offices when we were captured. They must have heard the gunshots. Did anyone call the police?”
“They said the phone lines were dead. But two managed to call using their cell phones.”
Peter nodded, imagining the local police organizing a rescue, also knowing it would take time. Then his attention landed on Gorev.
“What are they talking about?” Peter said, referring to the conversation between General Gorev and two other militiamen. They made no attempt to subdue their voices, and in the quiet room the sound carried easily.
“See that the tall one with blonde hair? His name is Major Leonov. General Gorev ordered him to make certain the machine is ready, and to set up a radio in the office of the Department President.”
Major Leonov was decidedly taller and younger than General Gorev, also more muscular. To Peter’s eye, Leonov looked like an elite, professional soldier.
“What machine? What are they talking about?”
Dmitri shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Although puzzled by the reference, Peter let it go for now. “Most likely the radio is so they can coordinate their actions with other groups. Have they said anything about government buildings also being taken? Anything about the police?”
“I think so. One of the men said that a police station was captured. Also the KGB Headquarters.”
“KGB?” Gary said.
“Yes, the State Secret Police still use that name, a carryover from the Cold War when Belarus was still part of the former Soviet Bloc.”
“What else are they saying?” Peter said.
“It sounds like they plan to question us.”
Peter tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows. “That’s curious. Why? What are they looking for?”
Dmitri shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Perhaps they are interested in our research?”
“There have been several successful breaches of the university servers. That’s why I was contracted,” Gary said. “The hacks have been mostly aimed at data from the science departments.”
“We save our data, as well as drafts of publications, to the department server—we share it with the physics department—it makes it easier to collaborate with our colleagues.”
“There’s more to this than scientific espionage. What else are they discussing?” Peter said.
“Major Leonov and one other man were sent to the roof. General Gorev told them to find the…” Dmitri hesitated. He closed his eyes tight and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know the word, but I think it is air draw. That’s what the General told them to find.”
Peter turned away, thinking. Air draw. Air draw.
Suddenly he looked again at Dmitri. “Air intake, is that it?”
A quick nod. “Yes, air intake.”
“Do you think that’s important?” Ian asked, keeping his voice low, almost a whisper, like the others.
Peter leaned back in his chair, wincing when his bruised back pushed into the backrest. He slowly swiveled to face Gary, who sat with his arms folded across his chest.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Gary asked.
“Makeup air.” For a few moments Peter just sat there, running scenarios through in his mind. He kept returning to one possibility.
“Dmitri. Are there exhaust ventilation hoods in the laboratories?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I thought so. And since those hoods draw a large amount of air out of the building there would be air intakes on the roof to bring a supply of fresh air back inside, makeup air.”
“Yes, it is necessary to balance the air pressure in the building so the ventilation hoods draw properly.”
“Why is that important?” Ian asked. “They can’t poison us, not when the militia is still guarding us. They’re breathing the same air we are.”
“I don’t know,” Peter replied. “Dmitri, anything else?”
Professor Kaspar shifted in his seat. “Well, the conversation is a bit odd. The General doesn’t show much respect for the guards, and he talks as if he is from a different unit. His accent is wrong. I think he is not from here.”
“Why is that strange? I’d imagine many of these militiamen are from other cities in Belarus.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. I think General Gorev is Russian military. Major Leonov, too.”
“Maybe the Russian army has advisors helping the militia?” Ian said.
Peter watched as Gorev interacted with several guards. “Not advisor, but active participant. We need some proof of Russian military involvement.”
Gorev sent two guards out with the rucksack, and then engaged in animated conversation with another militiaman. Judging from the gesticulations, Peter assumed Gorev was not pleased with the direction the discussion was going. Abruptly the two men walked out, followed by the remaining two guards. With the room momentarily empty of militiamen, Peter decided to check out Gorev’s desk.
“Gary, plant yourself by the door and cause a commotion when the guards come back in.”
Many of the other civilians watched Peter and Gary with a mix of curiosity and amusement. Peter swiftly walked up to the desk and grabbed the top sheet of paper. The writing was in the Cyrillic alphabet. Stuffing the paper inside his jacket, he returned to Dmitri just as the guards entered again. Seeing Gary standing close to the doors, one guard shoved him away, causing Gary to stumble in the process, knocking a chair aside with exaggerated movements.
Peter innocently placed the docum
ent in Dmitri’s hands, then turned toward the doorway in time to see Gary picking himself up. He stared back at the two guards. “What was that for?” The guards ignored the question and moved off to the side.
Dmitri quickly read the paper while Peter stood with his back to the guards, preventing them from observing Dmitri. “This appears to be a directive from the Russian military command. It references Spetsnaz troops here under command of General Gorev. The Spetsnaz troops are to ensure safety of the ethnic Russian civilians.”
“What else?”
Dmitri handed the paper back to Peter, who folded it and stuffed it inside the waistband of his pants. “That’s all. I think it continues on another page.”
“Got a visitor coming,” Gary mumbled, and then he nodded his head to the side indicating an approaching militia guard. Everyone quieted and looked at the floor.
The guard spoke to Dmitri, his rifle casually pointed at him. “He says we are to go with him.”
“What does he want?” Peter said.
“No. Not you. Only Ian and myself.”
Peter rose and the guard planted one foot back and snapped the AK-74 to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel at Peter’s head. Gary grabbed Peter by the shoulders. “No Peter. Not here.”
Ian held a hand out toward his son. “I’ll be fine. They probably just want to ask a few questions. Probably about the research Dmitri and I are doing.” Ian forced a smile, but it didn’t fool Peter.
The guard escorted the two professors out of the room, Peter still restrained by his friend.
“I’m done with waiting. It’s time for some answers,” Peter said, seeing that Gorev had returned.
“What’s the plan?” Gary was ready to go along with whatever Peter had in mind.
“A short chat with the General.”
Peter started walking toward the desk where General Gorev was conversing with various militiamen—he had not yet noticed the missing document. No one stopped Peter this time. He stood at the desk, Gary at his left, and looked down at the General. A militiaman moved in behind Peter.
“General Gorev. What do you want with my father and Dmitri?” Peter asked, interrupting the conversation.
Gorev ignored him, further infuriating Peter. He snapped his hand out and latched onto Gorev’s arm. “I’m talking to you!”
As soon as contact was made the guard swung the rifle butt into Peter’s side, connecting just below his ribs. Peter gasped, loosening his grip and twisting to the side.
Gorev stood, glaring at Peter and Gary, while the guard had his rifle aimed at the Americans. “It would be much easier just to shoot you now; unfortunately that would be counterproductive. Lock them in the store room.”
With rifle barrels pressing into their backs, Peter and Gary were escorted out of the conference room and into a long corridor. Shortly, they stopped in front of a room. One of the guards unlocked and opened the door, then turned on the light. It was a small, windowless room, with cleaning and other supplies stacked on shelves along the walls. Opposite the door was a utility sink, and next to the sink stood an industrial air compressor, bolted to the concrete floor.
Peter and Gary were shoved in and the door slammed shut behind them, followed by a click indicating the lock had been engaged. Gary immediately tried the handle, but it wouldn’t turn. He examined the latch and surrounding cover plate, failing to find machine screws holding it in place.
“The latch must be fastened to the door from the outside.”
“The hinge pins?” Peter asked.
“Tamper resistant. We’d need a special tool to remove them and I’m guessing we don’t have it.”
Still favoring his right side, Peter slowly took in the contents on the shelves—a collection of cleaning supplies plus electrical components and plumbing parts. For a couple minutes he said nothing, focused on his new surroundings.
“You got a plan coming together?” Gary said.
Peter nodded slightly. “Ever watch MacGyver on TV?”
Chapter 8
Minsk
“DON’T TELL ME YOU WANT to play TV trivia,” Gary said.
“Nope. But our host just made a big mistake by locking us in this room.” Peter replied.
Gary looked around at the walls and shelves. “The walls are concrete block, no way we’re digging out anytime soon. What do you see that I don’t?”
There was a large battered metal box underneath the sink. Peter opened the top to reveal a tray containing various tools. He spotted a rusty hacksaw, pliers, hammer, and assortment of other hand tools.
Next Peter examined the air compressor. The machine was dusty and the electric motor and finned metal cylinders were connected by a pair of pulleys and a worn belt. The pressure gauge read just shy of 1.2 MPa.
“If this gauge is correct, we have about 175 psi of air in the tank,” Peter said as he continued his inspection. A large valve was fitted close to the receiving tank, and iron pipe extended from the valve to an elbow and then to the wall. From there the pipe travelled vertically up through the ceiling.
Peter tested the valve. He grabbed the lever handle and pushed to the side until the handle was perpendicular to the pipe. He stepped back, studying the run of iron pipe.
“See if there are a couple of wrenches in that tool box,” he said.
Gary kneeled beside the sink and rummaged through the tools, working his way down to the bottom of the box. He stood and handed two worn pipe wrenches to Peter.
He clamped one of the rusty tools onto a three-foot section of pipe that extended horizontally to the wall. He pulled on the wrench, but the pipe didn’t budge. Again he tried, this time with both hands on the wrench, but the serrated jaws slipped on the iron, losing grip.
“Want me to try?” Gary asked.
“No, the threaded joints are rusted tight. If I pull too hard I could break the pipe.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
“No, I’m not looking for a club, rather something with more punch.”
Peter retrieved the hacksaw from the toolbox. “I’ll cut the pipe here by the wall. That will give us some leverage and together we should be able to turn the section of pipe 180 degrees so it’s pointing toward the door.”
Immediately Gary understood. “A compressed-air spud gun.”
“That’s the idea, but we aren’t shooting potatoes out of the pipe. This shut off valve at the receiver tank will be the trigger.”
“And what do you have in mind for the projectile?”
Peter was about a quarter of the way through the iron pipe where it was threaded into another elbow at the wall. Without looking away from his work, he nodded his head to the side. “That mop handle—if it fits inside the pipe.”
Gary hefted the mop. “Primitive, but effective.”
Peter completed severing the pipe and then handed the hacksaw to Gary. “Cut off the mop head and then saw a slot down the middle of the handle, about four inches long.”
While Gary was busy Peter found some steel wire in the toolbox and grabbed the pliers. Then he pulled the composite knife from his boot. The knife was molded without a hand guard, although there were two holes through the grip, forward and rear, to help with lashing the blade to a pole.
Returning to the toolbox, Peter searched for a drill and bits—nothing. So he picked up a Philips screwdriver; it would have to do.
It took Gary another minute to finish. Peter fit the grip of the composite blade into the slot sawn into the handle. It was snug, but good. He marked the location of both holes on the grip and then used the Philips screwdriver to auger two ragged holes through the wood. Next, he used the wire to secure the composite blade, passing the wire through both holes in the knife handle and twisting securely with the pliers until the wire bit into the wood. Then he wrapped the wire tightly around the wood over and over, cinching the split handle tight against the knife grip, finally twisting the wire ends together.
Pointing to the iron elbow that connected the valve to the sectio
n of pipe Peter had just cut through, he said, “Put the wrench on this elbow and turn while I push up on the pipe.” With a groan of rusted metal the pipe budged just a tiny amount at first. But as the years of rust broke free the pipe swung around until it was aimed directly at the door.
Gary tested the fit of the wood spear inside the pipe. “It’s a bit loose.” Peter noticed as well.
“We need a tight fit to build up pressure.” Peter hurried to the shelves beside the door. A pile of rags, mostly stained and oily, yielded what he sought. Selecting what had once been a T-shirt, Peter ripped off strips a few inches wide. While Gary held the spear, Peter wrapped one of the strips around the blunt end.
“See if you can work it into the pipe, it may be too tight.”
Gary twisted and pushed. Once he got it started the wood rod slid inside the pipe, although it took some effort. Together they rammed the shaft home, and then Peter took a final sighting along the length of the iron pipe, satisfied with the aim.
“That’s only good for one shot,” Gary said.
Peter nodded. He knew they needed more weaponry. “See what else you can find.”
“There’s a hammer in the toolbox, and those wrenches can be used as clubs.”
“Not likely. You’ll be shot before you get within arm’s reach.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Are there any chemicals you can mix to make a bomb?”
Peter shook his head. “Not here. Maybe in the chemical store room, where ever that is.”
“Well, I don’t see anything to make a bow.” Gary was methodically scanning the room. “And I don’t see any arrows either.” He paused. “Wait, is that a sprayer?” He pointed to the floor behind Peter and rushed to pick up the metal canister.
Like everything else, it was coated with grime and oil stains. Gary worked the pump and it felt like it was building pressure. The sprayer had a brass wand about two feet in length attached to a length of rubber hose. The hose was not very pliable anymore and the rubber was beginning to crack. He pointed the nozzle in a safe direction and squeezed the handle. A focused jet of foul smelling liquid squirted about six feet.
“It works! Maybe we can fill it with paint thinner or something and make a flamethrower.”