“I’ll need the President’s okay on that.”
“The tilt-rotors will bingo if they have to stay in the air to wait for word from the President,” Curtis said. “Let’s get them moving toward the objective. Let the on-scene commander call the shots.”
Tom Preston thought for a moment; then: “All right. Let them proceed.” He picked up the direct line to the White House at the same time Curtis gave the orders.
“Move it! Move it!” Colonel Nikita Kortyshkov screamed. The commander of OMON security forces at the Fisikous Aircraft-Design Bureau, brandishing an AK-74, shoved passing soldiers in the back to move faster. Even with five hundred heavily armed soldiers on duty, they were practically defenseless unless they could get into proper position in time. Kortyshkov had screwed up badly, but he told himself it wasn’t his fault. He had heard the first radio reports of a large number of intruders in the base and passed that off as an exercise. The Design-Bureau security force was never involved in any large-scale exercises, but Denerokin and the rest of the base performed security evaluations and realistic invasion exercises all the time. It was never announced as an exercise, but Kortyshkov assumed it was anyway because they were saying that upwards of three battalions were storming the base.
That was ridiculous, or so he thought.
Minutes later, a loud cannon shot rumbled throughout the base. A few frantic radio reports said that a huge enemy force had entered the base, that the base headquarters had been destroyed, that half the security force had been killed, and that soldiers were ready to attack the design bureau. How much was fact and how much was fiction, Kortyshkov couldn’t tell. But at this late stage of the game, he had better assume the worst.
“I want a platoon up on the roof,” he said to his NCO in charge of the security detail, “along with four machine guns. Break out the night-vision equipment in case the lights are taken out. Have communications been restored with the headquarters building or with Stepanov? Why are all these men running around like this …?”
Just then Kortyshkov recognized Vadim Teresov, the assistant to the senior KGB officer on the base. Teresov’s office and that of his superior officer, Gabovich, were on the top floor of the security building, and Teresov was often here many hours before Gabovich arrived at six A.M. Kortyshkov tried to ignore the man, tossing orders left and right, but it was obvious Teresov was looking for him and would not be deterred.
The KGB officer walked over to Kortyshkov and said in a low voice, “I will speak to you, Colonel, right now.”
“Not now, Comrade…
“Right now, Colonel.” Teresov pulled the OMON officer aside into a doorway. “Have you carried out the Zulu directive?”
The Zulu directive stated simply that all prisoners kept in the lowest level of cells in the security facility, called the “Zulu level,” will be executed in case of an attack, riot, or disturbance. The directive was initiated after the Denerokin riot, when it was obvious that had the Black Berets not cracked down on the rioters, the base could have very well been overrun and the politically sensitive prisoners released. The prisoner was to be removed from his cell, killed by a gunshot to the head, and thrown into the incinerator on the same level, two floors down below street level.
Currently, there was only one prisoner in the Zulu leveclass="underline" Dr. Ivan Sergeiovich Ozerov.
Kortyshkov searched his fading memory; then the realization of what Teresov was talking about hit hard. “The prisoners…!”
“Quiet, you fool,” Teresov said as soldiers rushed past within listening range. “Yes, the damned prisoners. Now carry out the directive immediately.”
“I don’t have time to butcher the pris — to supervise the directive,” I Kortyshkov stammered. It was immediately obvious to Teresov that Kortyshkov was completely unprepared for the assault currently under way, and he was virtually frozen with fear. He looked as if he was about to shoot himself in the face with his AK-47 any second. “I have lost contact with Colonel Stepanov, and my Thirty-second Armored Company is getting ready to engage enemy forces west of the runway.
“You asinine fool, your first responsibility is to the KGB and to General Gabovich!”
Kortyshkov’s eyes widened when Teresov said “KGB — but of course everyone knew that the “old” KGB had never gone away. The new MSB, of which Kortyshkov was a part, was nothing more than a leaner, meaner Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti. This only served to confirm that suspicion. “My first responsibility is to stop those invaders,” Kortyshkov snapped. “Now get out of my way.”
“You idiot! You will be executed for your insubordination if you do not—”
Then Teresov stopped. Kortyshkov had a strange, detached expression on his face. The beleaguered OMON officer was beginning to tune out all voices, all sounds. Some voice in his head was overriding all else, and right now that voice was telling him to remove all blabbering sources of distraction. Kortyshkov actually swung the muzzle of the AK-47 slowly in Teresov’s direction, and Teresov knew that at the slightest provocation — a word, a sudden noise, even a glance — he was going to pull the trigger. Kortyshkov would die for killing a senior KGB official, but that was little comfort because Teresov would be just as dead. The KGB officer stepped back a pace and moved his hands away from the holster under his jacket that he saw Kortyshkov glancing at.
“Leave me alone,” Kortyshkov said in a low, trembling voice. “Leave me alone. I must supervise the base defense. Carry out your directive yourself if you have to, but leave me alone.” Kortyshkov turned and rejoined his executive officer, throwing commands at everyone.
Teresov was left alone in the doorway of a darkened room. Damn him, Teresov cursed silently, thinking about the hell Gabovich would make Kortyshkov pay for his insubordination.
But Teresov’s first responsibility was to his superior officer. Gabovich had to be found and escorted to safety. Holding a KGB general would be an immense victory for whoever was staging this invasion, and Teresov had pledged to lay down his life for his superior officer.
His second responsibility was to see that all of Gabovich’s plans and programs were secure and uncompromised during this emergency, and Gabovich’s most important covert operation was the American, Luger, being held prisoner in the basement. It was obviously too late to get Luger out of the facility and into hiding or across the border to Byelorussia.
The only option was to execute him.
Teresov had developed a comprehensive procedure to be followed for disposing of Luger’s body — burn it in the incinerator on Subfloor 2, the same floor as Luger’s cell. But he never intended on doing the thing himself. Murdering a helpless prisoner was a job for brainless louts, not for officers. More importantly, it was vital that all possible traces of Luger’s presence and death could never be traced back to Viktor Gabovich.
Better get started locating Gabovich, Teresov thought, and hope to hell that the incompetent fool Kortyshkov could hold off whoever it was out there until all traces of First Lieutenant David Luger’s presence here in Fisikous could be properly and efficiently destroyed.