The shot echoed through the large assembly hall and Pusko suddenly stopped speaking. A growing red stain appeared in the center of his chest as he looked down in amazement. Pusko tried to speak, but nothing but blood came from his lips. He slumped and dropped to the floor as the men on the stage tried to get out of the way. Several more shots were fired and a number of officers on the platform were killed.
Now everyone in the hall began scrambling for the doors. There were screams and shouts as the people stampeded in every direction. Outside, several batches of new conscripts were huddled outside a building when they saw the doors to the assembly hall fly open and people cascade out. Most didn’t stop running. Security police appeared in their vehicles and made their way inside. It was too late. Pusko was dead along with the commanding general of the base and several senior officers. Searching the building, the security teams found nothing except a printed notice urging the soldiers to revolt. Next to it was one of the printed notices of the day’s event. Pusko’s name had been marked through.
The Patriarch looked over the message and let out a sigh. “Evil would destroy the world,” he said softly. He looked up at the young priest who brought the message. “You are sure this has happened?”
The young man nodded. “Yes, Holy Father. It came from someone we trust in the military and has been confirmed by another trusted son. Even the American radio station has been proclaiming it to the world. I believe the Americans are crying out to our people not to let this thing happen,” he said.
The Patriarch nodded. “Please sit, my son,” he said offering a chair. The young priest sat down and noticed the Patriarch go into prayer. He bowed his head and remained silent. After a few minutes the Patriarch stirred. He looked at the priest and saw his questioning face. He then smiled and placed a hand on the young man’s arm. “It is always good to pray before making a decision,” he said. “Now, go and rouse the staff. What you are hearing on the radio, I believe is the voice of God. Our Father is telling us it is time to act. We must get the word to our people. We meet in Moscow Monday next on Red Square. I will be there to lead our flock beginning at nine a.m.,” he said determined. “That should give everyone time to be ready.”
“But Holy Father, they are looking for you,” he said in a concerned manner.
Again the Patriarch smiled. “And they shall find me. The church shall rise up and I will be there with our people,” he said softly. “Now go and make preparations.”
The young priest scurried from the room as Patriarch Gregory sat back and closed his eyes. Once again he felt the warm glow of satisfaction as it coursed through him. God was calling and he and all Russians of Faith would answer that call.
The special trucks pulled into the nuclear weapons storage facility with heavy guards. They were met at the gate and escorted to bunker number 12 where the artillery weapons had been stored. Already the large caliber guns had been sent to the border for use. The shells were the last piece of the plan to blast a corridor through the Allied lines and make their way to the English Channel. The men were tired and on edge. The Allied aircraft were everywhere and none of them even expected to make it this far. Each truck had arrived via a different route to avoid attention. They had been on the road for several days without stop except for fuel. There would still be another 24 hour drive just to get the shells to their destinations.
The arsenal personnel were taking their time. No one ever wanted to handle these weapons. The thought of dropping one was unthinkable, even though their superiors had told them it wouldn’t go off. The first truck backed up to the large heavy steel door and the lift gate was hydraulically lowered. The men stepped back.
Two men went forward with sets of keys to unlock the bunker. First there was a combination lock, which was dialed in, then two men tried to insert their keys. For some reason, the keys wouldn’t fit in the hole. Checking again, the men tried several times, but nothing worked. Upon closer inspection, it appeared there was something in the keyhole itself. One of the men pulled out a small penknife and tried to pry the object out. A small piece of semi-clear plastic chipped off into the man’s hand.
“It’s epoxy,” he exclaimed.
An officer ran forward and examined the chip and the two locks. “We have to get this open,” he said firmly.
“Colonel, this is ten inch thick armored steel. The hinges are on the inside. It would take a welder over a week just to cut through it, much less open these doors. Perhaps we should try another bunker,” one of the men suggested.
The men and trucks went to bunker 23. The same epoxy was in those locks as well. The colonel jumped in his car and went around to all the adjacent bunkers. They too had been epoxied shut. He returned and ordered his men back to the administration building. He called the arsenal at Zhukovka where another stockpile of the shells was stored. After a quick check, they found the same thing had happened there as well. It would be a while before Russia would be able to access its tactical weapons.
The large 8-inch guns used to fire the shells were having their own difficulties. Spring was in the air and the melting snow and rains turned some of the roads into soup. That in itself was not so much of a problem as the people. As the weather had warmed, the people along the borders had decided they needed to leave their homes to escape the coming battles along the border. There was no fuel for their cars or trucks, so they had loaded their belongings onto wooden carts, fashioning them out of whatever rolling stock they had. Like pictures of refugees from the Second World War, the people began filling the streets and highways in long lines headed away from the border. The elderly and small children rode the carts with baggage and a few sticks of furniture while the others walked, pushing the carts along the way. There were so many people they clogged the roads in each direction. Trucks pulling the huge guns had to stop. To leave the road meant getting into the mud and getting bogged down till summer. So the trucks stopped, hoping that by evening, the lines would go away. It didn’t happen. The people didn’t want to get into the mud either, so they camped on the hard surface of the road. Allied planes saw the artillery pieces, but left them alone. They weren’t going anywhere and there was no desire to harm the people fleeing for their lives.
After a week of what the Americans called ‘brainstorming,’ the group elected Petyr to write the manual on drone operations. There was only one problem. Although Petyr had become quite fluent in speaking and reading English, writing a technical manual in the language was a little beyond his capabilities. Instead, he wrote the manual in Polish. The deadline was approaching, so Petyr spent forty eight hours fleshing out the document. By the time he was finished, the manual was some fifty pages long, not including the photos, diagrams and other graphics.
After sending up a request for a translator, a young American was detailed to the office. He didn’t make a great impression. His uniform looked like he had slept in it, and his attitude matched the uniform. Ricks and Petyr had been sitting in the office going over last minute selections for the graphics when the corporal entered the office, slapped down a small stack of books and said, “Okay, I’m your translator. What do you guys need me to do?” You could tell by his attitude that he could care less for the job.
Petyr looked over at Ricks and shrugged. Ricks returned to his work while Petyr motioned toward the computer where the manuscript had been stored. “We need to have this manuscript translated from Polish to English so that it can be distributed to the Allied armies. I need you to get this done by day after tomorrow,” said Petyr.