“You’re suggesting I leave the country, sir?” Tychina asked with total amazement. “I couldn’t do that!”
“Son, I’ll give you permission to cross the border,” Panchenko said, his face suddenly hard and serious, “and I strongly suggest you do it. First of all, you’re a damned hero, a true hero. You put your life on the line to defend your country against astounding odds, and you were victorious. The whole world knows about you, and they would think poorly of the Ukrainian Air Force if we put you back on duty so fast. You should be going to the United Nations or to NATO, testifying on the Russian aggression — in fact, I will request that the commanding general send you to Kiev to debrief the general staff, then send you to Geneva to argue our case.
“Second, you’re injured. You may think you’re ready to fly, but you’re not.” He held up a hand to silence Tychina’s protest, then added, “Third, you should take your bride out of the country, spend a few days making a future Ukrainian pilot, then leave her out of the country where it’s safe.”
“Sir, what in hell are you saying?”
“I’m saying that there’s going to be a war, son, and Ukrayina is going to be the battleground,” Panchenko said, using the less formal and more popular name, “Ukrayina,” for their country. “New Russia wants to lead an empire again — Moldova, the Ukraine, Kazakhstan, maybe the Baltic states: the sons of bitches will try to take them all back. We’re going to stop them from taking Ukrayina, with God’s help and maybe some help from the West. But in the meantime, this will be no place for young Ukrainian wives and mothers.”
“Do you really expect a war with Russia, sir?” Tychina asked gravely.
“Unfortunately, I do,” Panchenko admitted. “So does the general staff. Ever wonder why you led a major patrol formation the other night with only a partial warload?”
Tychina’s eyes lit up from behind his mask: “Yes, dammit, I only had half the close-range missiles I needed.”
“There’s a reason for that,” Panchenko said, “and it’s not because of some black market thefts, as the rumor mill is saying these days. You should—”
A klaxon alert suddenly blared just outside the office. Tychina jumped at the sound, but to his surprise, Panchenko did not — in fact, he appeared to have expected it. The door to his office burst open, but Panchenko did not look at the communications officer who had entered — he looked directly at Tychina’s masked face with a sad, exasperated expression. “Sir!” the communications officer shouted. “ ‘Majestic’ fighter patrol reports large formations of bombers inbound. Supersonic bombers, Tupolev-160 and Tupolev-22M bombers, coming in at very low altitude. They got past the patrols.”
“Cruise missile attack … and this time it won’t be a straight-and-level attack,” Panchenko said slowly, as if a great weariness had just come over him. “Lieutenant, launch Crown patrol and any other ready air patrols and aircraft. Sound the air raid sirens. Where’s the General and the Vice Commander?”
“The General is in quarters, sir. The Vice is at a city council meeting downtown.”
Panchenko knew it would take the commanding general at least ten to fifteen minutes to get back to headquarters, even if he raced back at high speed. He shook his head — he knew he had no choice. “Very well,” he said. “Under my authority, seal up the command center and disengage external antennas. Switch to the ground-wave communications network and report to me when full ground-wave connectivity is established.”
Pavlo Tychina’s masked head quickly went from the excited communications officer back to Panchenko. “What’s going on, sir? You’re sealing up the command center?”
“We were lucky the other night, thanks to you,” Panchenko said wearily. “You turned back what would have been the Russian’s warning shot at Ukrayina. If they meant peace, we would have been safe. If they meant war, I knew they would return, only this time with weapons of mass destruction. That attack has begun.”
“What? The attack? What are you … Mikki! God, no …!” Tychina’s masked eyes finally realized what the senior officer was saying. He shot to his feet, pushed the communications officer out of his way, and raced for the door. He managed to make it out of the battle staff area and main communications center, but by the time he reached the large blast door outside the command center, he found it closed and bolted. He went back and confronted the security guards outside the communications center, but all he found were men with tight lips and eyes filled with terror who would not comply with his order to open the blast door.
“Even the commanding general must stay out until the all-clear is sounded, Pavlo,” Colonel Panchenko said behind Tychina. “He knows that. Our ability to survive and fight would be destroyed if we opened that door. Even love must take a backseat when a nation and the lives of millions are at stake.”
The lights suddenly went out, and after several long moments of darkness the emergency lights went on. “We’re on generator power,” he said matter-of-factly. “We operate on hydroelectric generators that run on an underground river, did you know that? Unlimited water and power. We can even produce oxygen. We have diesel generators and batteries as a backup — we have enough batteries to cover a soccer field down here. I estimate there are a hundred people in the command center, and the supplies were stocked for twice that number. We can survive down here for three months, if need be.”
“What’s the point?” Tychina asked angrily. His sterile mask produced a hideous effect, ghostly and evil-looking, like some medieval executioner on a rampage. “Is there going to be anything up there to protect?”
“Cicero said, ‘While there is life there is hope,’ “ Panchenko said.
He turned, sniffed at the air. “The ventilators have kicked on. We draw fresh air from miles away from the base until radiation levels exceed a certain point, then shut down and go on carbon dioxide scrubbers and electrochemical air-restoration systems, like a big submarine. Come on, Pavlo, let’s get back and find out what’s going on outside.”
Tychina touched the big steel door. He thought he could hear voices and maybe fists pounding on the door from the other side, but the door was sixty centimeters thick, so that was unlikely. “She’s gone, isn’t she, sir?” he said from behind his mask.
“Pavlo, we don’t know,” Panchenko said over the loud hum of the ventilators. “All we know is, we’ve got a job to do. Our country needs us. You may have become the senior pilot of this wing, Pavlo, maybe even of the entire Ukrayina Air Force. I need you to help organize whatever forces we have. Now you can destroy yourself with pity, and I’ll understand, because you’ve been through hell already. Or you can come with me and help me organize the battle against the Russians. Which is it going to be?”
Tychina nodded, took a deep breath, and followed Panchenko back to the battle staff briefing room. Perhaps he was being overly dramatic, he thought. Maybe it wasn’t a full-scale attack, or maybe the air patrols would turn the Russian bombers back — the patrols had been strengthened since his incident the other night. He could hear the usual cacophony of chatter coming from the communications room, the clatter of teletypes and fax machines, the hum of computers. Nothing was going to happen, he thought. Dammit, he had let Petr Panchenko, a man he truly admired and wanted to emulate, see his scared, apprehensive side. He had to really take charge now, Tychina thought. He had to—
— suddenly all the lights went dead, a sound louder than thirty years’ worth of thunderstorms rolled through the underground structure, and everything in Pavlo Tychina’s consciousness went black.