“You mean the one who helped Kropotkin steal the tank?”
“Yes. He has agreed to cooperate.”
“And you need this man?”
“I believe he is our best chance of negotiating with Kropotkin.”
“And what if Kropotkin won’t negotiate?”
“Then there are other measures we can take.”
“Other measures?” asked Stalin. “What sorcery have you got planned, Pekkala?”
“Not sorcery. Tungsten steel.”
“A new weapon?”
“Yes,” replied Pekkala. “It is still in the experimental stage. We will be testing it before we leave.”
“Why haven’t I heard about this?”
“As with most things, Comrade Stalin, Nagorski ordered it to be kept secret.”
“But not from me!” Stalin roared into the phone. “I am the keeper of secrets! There are no secrets kept from me! Do you remember what I told you about those rumors British intelligence was spreading? That we are planning to attack Germany across the Polish border? The Germans believe those rumors, Pekkala, and that is exactly what they will think is happening if you don’t stop this tank! Our country is not ready for a war! So this had better work, Pekkala! You have forty-eight hours to stop the machine. After that, I am sending in the army.”
“I understand,” said Pekkala.
“Did you know,” asked Stalin, “that I also have a son named Konstantin?”
“Yes, Comrade Stalin.”
Stalin sighed into the receiver, the sound like rain in Pekkala’s ears. “Imagine,” he whispered, “to be killed by your own flesh and blood.”
Before Pekkala could reply, he heard the click of Stalin hanging up the phone.
AS THE SUN ROSE ABOVE THE TREES, PEKKALA SQUINTED THROUGH A pair of binoculars at the far end of the muddy proving ground. Trapped like a fly in the filaments of the binoculars’ ranging grid was the vast hulk of a T-34, a white number 5 painted on the side of its turret.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” replied Kirov. He lay on the ground, the stock of the PTRD tucked into his shoulder and the barrel balanced on its tripod.
“Fire,” said Pekkala.
A stunning crash filled the air. Two bright red flashes spat from the side of the T-34’s turret, followed by a puff of smoke. When the smoke had cleared, Pekkala could see a patch of bare metal where the bullet had struck, obliterating half of the white number. He lowered the binoculars. “What happened?”
It was Gorenko who replied. “The bullet struck at an angle. It was deflected.”
Kirov still lay on the ground, his mouth open and eyes wide, stunned by the concussion of the gun. “I think I broke my jaw,” he mumbled.
“You hit it, anyway,” replied Pekkala.
“It doesn’t matter whether you hit it or not,” said Gorenko. “The shot must be perfect in order to penetrate the hull. The armor at that point is seventy millimeters thick.”
“Look, Professor,” said Kirov, lifting another bullet from beside the gun. “What happens to one of those machines if it is fired on in battle?”
“That depends,” Gorenko replied matter-of-factly, “on what you’re shooting at it. Bullets just bounce off. They won’t leave any more of a dent than a fingerprint on a cold slab of butter. Even some artillery shells can’t get through. It makes a hell of a noise, but that’s better than what happens if a shell gets through the hull.”
“And what does happen if a shell gets through?”
Gorenko took the bullet from Kirov’s hand and tapped the end of it with his finger. “When this round hits a vehicle,” he explained, “it is traveling at 1,012 meters per second. If it gets inside, the bullet begins to bounce around.” He turned the bullet slowly, so that it seemed to cartwheel first one way and then another. “It strikes a dozen times, a hundred, a thousand. Everyone inside will be torn to pieces, as thoroughly as if they had been cut apart with butcher knives. Or it will strike one of the cannon shells and the tank will explode from the inside out. Trust me, Inspector Kirov, you do not want to be in a tank when one of these comes crashing through the side. It shreds the metal of a hull compartment into something that looks like a giant bird’s nest.”
“Try it again,” Pekkala told Kirov.
Once more, Kirov fitted the gun stock against his shoulder. He slid back the breech, ejected the empty cartridge, and placed a new round in the chamber.
“This time,” said Gorenko, “aim for the place where the turret joins the chassis of the tank.”
“But that gap can’t be more than a couple of centimeters wide!” said Pekkala.
“We did not design this machine,” said Gorenko, “so that what you are trying to do would be easy.”
Kirov nestled the side of his face against the cheek pad. He closed one eye and bared his teeth. His toes dug into the ground.
“Whenever you’re ready,” said Pekkala.
The words were not even out of his mouth when a bolt of flame shot out of the end of the gun. The air around them seemed to shudder.
When the smoke cleared from around the tank, another stripe of silver showed at the base of the turret.
Gorenko shook his head.
In the distance, the squat shape of the T-34 seemed to mock them.
“It’s useless,” muttered Pekkala. “We will have to think of something else.”
Kirov climbed to his feet and slapped the dirt off his chest. “Maybe it’s time we called in the army. We’ve done everything we can do.”
“Not everything,” said Gorenko.
Both men turned to look at him.
“Even Achilles had his heel,” said the professor, reaching into his pocket and pulling out another cartridge for the PTRD. But this one was not like the others. Instead of the dull metal of tungsten steel, the bullet gleamed like mercury. “This is a mixture of titanium tetrachloride and calcium,” explained Gorenko. “It was invented by a man named William Kroll, only a few years ago, in Luxembourg. There is less than a kilo of the stuff in existence. Ushinsky and I obtained some for our experiments.” He tossed the bullet to Kirov. “I have no idea what will happen. It has never been tested before.”
“Load the gun,” said Pekkala.
At the next shot, there was no red flash. Instead, a small black spot appeared in the side of the turret. They heard a faint crackling sound, but that was all.
“Nothing,” muttered Kirov.
“Wait,” replied Gorenko.
A moment later, a strange bluish glow outlined the T-34. Then the turret of the tank rose into the air, hoisted on a pillar of flame. A wave of concussion spread out from the machine, flattening the grass. When the wall struck Pekkala, he felt as if he had been kicked in the chest.
The turret spun slowly in the air, as if it weighed nothing at all, then fell to earth with a crash that shook the ground beneath their feet. Thick black smoke billowed from the guts of the machine. More explosions sounded, some deep like thunder and others thin and snapping as the ammunition detonated in the blazing machine.
Kirov stood up and slapped Pekkala on the back. “Now you’ve got to admit it!”
“Admit what?” Pekkala asked suspiciously.
“That I’m a good shot! A great shot!”
Pekkala made a quiet grumbling noise.
Kirov turned to Gorenko, ready to congratulate him on the success of the titanium bullet.
But Gorenko’s face was grim. He stared at the wreckage of the T-34. “All this work bringing them to life,” he murmured. “It’s hard to see them killed that way.”
The smiles faded from their faces, as they heard the sadness in the old professor’s voice.
“How many more of those titanium bullets have you got?” asked Pekkala.
“One.” Gorenko pulled the other bullet from his pocket and put it in Pekkala’s open hand.