He blinked several times, tried stomping his feet, paced, even slapped himself across the face. Nothing helped. A pot of coffee and still utter exhaustion. Mikhail hoped the results would present themselves soon. Good or bad, at the moment he could only think about sleep. He had been up for three days straight, working furiously on the final details, re-calculating and second guessing.
But the time was now.
The truth would soon present itself.
His very life might be on the line, but at the moment, that didn’t seem to bother Mikhail. His exhaustion had caused him to cease caring about his own life for the moment, though he knew he should be careful what he wished for.
The rest he so desired might just be a permanent one.
Mikhail sat back down, staring at the clutter atop his desk, looking past it to the wall, the faded picture of Joseph Stalin hanging above him, a reminder they were always watching. The infamous ruler might have been long dead, but his memory would remain alive for generations.
Mikhail gulped, hoping he could honor the great leader’s legacy. He pulled his thin-frame glasses from his face, laying them atop his notes. Rubbing his eyes, Mikhail brushed his small, fragile hands through his coarse hair. It was thinning, and already beginning to gray. He looked much older than his forty-one years, weathered and battered from the long hours, the conditions, the constant pressure.
No word yet.
He twisted a dial, the small box on his desk now louder, for a storm was brewing outside and it was hard to hear. Mikhail could hear the crackle of static, the hiss and pop of dead air, and from time to time the communications. He listened intently as the helicopter pilots spoke to base command, closing in on their target. Though many miles away, Mikhail could sense their apprehension, their fear. These brave men were playing their role, doing their duty just as many warriors before them had done theirs. Little did they know, this certain mission might turn out to be the Soviet Union’s greatest triumph, or its biggest tragedy.
Just like himself, these men were hand-picked for their talent and skills, though they were clueless as to their part of this grand show, this puzzle that was unraveling.
Mikhail couldn’t understand exactly why these men weren’t told the truth, and it made him think of those pilots flying the Enola Gay, wondering if they’d feel the same after. He wondered if men such as Captain Drago would be honored or horrified, if this event would alter the man’s life. An officer of the Soviet Union whom Mikhail would never meet, never speak to. He would never know to what extent this test would endure. The scientist couldn’t help but feel sorrow for the men and their actions.
It isn’t fair, he thought.
Still no word.
Empty static.
But Mikhail knew it would come soon, he knew that at any moment he’d know if all his hard work would be fruitful to the Soviet Union.
Mikhail shifted in his seat, looking to his papers, scanning his notes looking for something wrong with the calculations, as if he could do anything about it even if he did find an error. He hoped he had done everything right, hoped his research would pay off. Mikhail feared failure most, knowing his life might become worthless if this proved useless. He understood one thing: in the Soviet Union, one was only needed if he was worthy to the cause. If this didn’t work, if something went wrong, it could prove disastrous. They might continue his work, but perhaps replace him, and Mikhail knew exactly what that meant.
He knew what happened to those who failed.
Mikhail tapped his forehead, a nervous habit he had started long ago, though he couldn’t remember its origins. He had to remind himself he was one of the greatest scientific minds of his generation, that he was needed. But this didn’t seem to help his worry either. He knew the Soviet Union’s ways, the Russians were notorious for them. If this project was determined a waste of valuable resources and time, they’d surely send him packing.
A remote gulag didn’t sound appealing to the wiry man. Everyone was expendable in the Soviet Union. You either served the cause or you served no purpose. And though Mikhail was more of a prisoner here than a professional, he knew he wouldn’t last long in a prison camp, despite the fact that Vector Lab much resembled one.
He only hoped it worked.
He hoped they’d still need him.
Mikhail’s research was advanced, cutting edge and ahead of its time. Locked in a secret vault smack in the middle of the most isolated place on earth, Mikhail worked on the most exotic, radical chemicals ever created by man. He imagined even God himself, if he so existed, would never tread in such a territory as his own research. This new weapon might far surpass that of the Americans when they developed the first atomic bomb. This invention, this creation of his, might change the entire political world spectrum. This chemical, his very own design, might even change the course of history, and though the idea didn’t necessary fit his own morals or ideals — for something was indeed wrong about this — Mikhail did so for his country, for the troops who fought.
For the Motherland.
The goal was simple — to create a super-soldier.
He was tasked to create a chemical that didn’t kill or maim, but one that would enhance a soldier’s ability to kill, to increase his awareness, his fortitude, his intelligence. This compound was radical, capable of not only enhancement, but far more. It would literally change a man’s DNA, his genetic makeup, creating something not human. If successful, it would be revolutionary.
Mikhail day-dreamed for a moment, wondering if he’d be remembered alongside the great minds, the Da Vincis, the Edisons. Or would he remain unknown?
Would he be honored by the Soviet Union?
Would he be known as a superior Soviet scientist and allowed to leave Siberia?
Or would they keep him hidden away, giving somebody else his glory?
Mikhail supposed it didn’t matter.
11
Ahmed raced down the long hallway, turning and running around the corners until he was now descending down a sharp embankment, into the depths of the cavern. These caves weren’t completely natural, but man-made, intricate, complex. They were built on the hardworking American taxpayer’s money, were American design, and this particular cave housed over four hundred men, women and children.
He raced around another corner, entering the first of many large chambers. He could see Fajii ahead, walking slowly, head down, on his way to comfort Ahmed’s sister.
“Fajii!” Ahmed screamed. “Quick, gather the men!”
His friend turned, tilting his head, curious.
“The Soviets are here! I can hear their gunships,” Ahmed shouted.
Fajii’s eyes went wide. This valley was deemed a safe-haven, and though the Soviets had recently been pushing hard into the Khost province, this area had remained unmolested. This was perhaps the beginning, and Fajii tensed up. “The Soviets? Here? How? Why?”
Ahmed was now face-to-face, a gleam in his eyes. “I imagine they’ve advanced, though I do not know how. Our communication lines are splintered, I’m afraid. Now go, quickly! Gather the men and tell them a great day of reckoning is upon us. We must fight them off.”
“What about you?” Fajii asked, alarmed. “Where are you headed, Ahmed?”
Ahmed ignored him at first, instead scrambling past, rushing to the opposite side of the large room. There, in the corner, was a large cache of weapons.