Two of the men came out behind him and one aimed his submachine gun at the departing machine.
“Nyet,” the colonel cried. “That won’t do any good.” The fool! If he successfully shot down the helicopter the noise of the crash would bring everyone in the army camp over here. And it would be damned hard to fly out of here in a crashed helicopter.
The colonel stood listening to the noise of the machine as it faded. When all he could hear were the night noises of frogs and insects, he still stood undecided. He had expected problems, but not this — to be abandoned by the helicopter pilot! Betrayed!
The pilot was a Ukranian. He should have demanded a Russian pilot. The colonel choked back his rage and frustration and wondered what to do. He had, he well knew, miserably few options.
“What do we do now, Colonel?” one of the men asked.
The query decided him.
“Let’s set the charges.” He was surprised at his own voice. It sounded calm, in control, which wasn’t the way he felt at all. Usually when he was enraged his voice became a hoarse croak.
“If we hadn’t cut the telephone lines we could call for another helicopter,” one of the men said disgustedly. “We certainly can’t blow this damn thing up unless we have transport out of here.”
“Back inside,” the colonel said. “Let’s finish the job while I think.”
They were reluctant but the habit of obedience was strong. The colonel followed them back into the building.
It took forty-five minutes to finish setting the charges atop the biological shield. Forty-five minutes of sweating an impossible situation.
He should have had a backup chopper, should have brought a two-way radio. But there was no time. “No! Do it now! Do it tonight!” the general had said.
All the careful planning, all the preparations that didn’t get done, all the backups that weren’t quite ready. That was the trouble with the Soviet system — the remorseless pressure to make “it” happen always forced shortcuts, compromises in quality and safety. It was infuriating when you saw the disasters everywhere you looked but goddamn catastrophic when it was your life on the line. How easy it was for a bureaucrat or general to shout “Now!”
He forced himself to work slowly, with meticulous care, as he set the shaped charges. There would be no second chance. This had to be done right the first time, which, he told himself furiously, would be the only recorded instance of the accomplishment of that feat in Russia since the czar impregnated his bride on their wedding night.
He was perspiring heavily when he finished. He stood back and used a rag to wipe his face and hands. “Insert the detonators.”
“Colonel, how are we going to get away from here?”
“I said insert the detonators. Wire them up but don’t arm the triggering device. I’ll go find us some transport. Give me a submachine gun.”
One of the men passed his weapon over.
“Get busy.”
The colonel slung the weapon over his shoulder and climbed the ladder.
When he left the cavernous room two of the men were inserting detonators and wiring them to the firing device as the other two watched.
The army camp was three kilometers up the road. The colonel cooled off as he walked in the darkness. He was unwilling to use the flashlight, so he stumbled occasionally over uneven places in the road. Still he walked quickly. Only two hours until dawn.
He stopped when he was still fifty meters from the circle of light above the gate and looked the camp over. It was surrounded by a sagging, rusted wire fence. A guard kiosk stood by the open gate. No doubt a sentry was there, the only man awake in the camp. He hoped that no one else was awake.
There, by that building in the back, wasn’t that a truck? Yes. It had grass growing around it to the top of its wheels. Perhaps there was a car or another truck in the garage.
The colonel moved toward the sentry’s kiosk, staying in the shadows, making as little noise as possible. He kept the submachine gun over his shoulder but held the pistol with the silencer in his right hand.
He was still fifteen feet from the kiosk, just coming into the light circle, when the sentry inside the unpainted wooden shack saw him and jerked in surprise.
The colonel pointed the pistol at the soldier and said, as calmly as he could and just loud enough to be heard, “Don’t move. Just stay exactly as you are and you won’t get hurt.”
The man froze. He was young, in his late teens.
“Now very carefully, step outside.”
The soldier complied. He was trembling.
“Where is the other sentry?”
The soldier merely shook his head.
The colonel pointed his weapon and repeated the question.
“I’m the only one, sir.”
“If you are lying you will be the first to die. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s go look at the truck.” The colonel snapped on his flashlight and used it to point the way. He followed the soldier, who had now decided to raise his hands a little.
The truck was a rotting hulk. The tires were flat, the glass was broken from several windows, weeds peeked through the radiator grill.
“Where is the other truck?” he demanded, his voice a forced whisper.
“In the garage.”
“Open it, quietly. If anyone wakes up…”
The truck in the garage was fairly new, painted olive drab and had air in all the tires. Keeping the weapon pointed at the soldier, the colonel eased the driver’s door open and shone the flashlight on the instrument panel. No ignition key was required. Merely switch on the electrical system and push the starter button. The colonel reached in and flipped the electrical switch. The proper lights came on. He examined the fuel gauge. The needle rested on the left side. Empty! The colonel flipped the switch off.
“Where’s the gasoline?”
“We haven’t had any gas for a month.” The young soldier’s hands were down and his voice unnaturally loud.
The colonel lowered the barrel of the pistol and fired a round into the dirt at the soldier’s feet. The report was merely a soft pop. “You’d better find some.”
“Over there.” The gesture was quick, jerky.
There were some cans against the wall, beside a motorcycle. The colonel hefted one. Half full. The others were empty — all eight.
“This motorcycle — does it work?”
“Oh yes. The captain rides it every day over to the reactor. And into town on Sundays. He—”
“Shut up!”
The colonel quickly checked every other fuel can in the garage. All empty. He examined the controls on the motorcycle, the tires, then opened the cap on the fuel tank. At least half full. He made the trembling soldier fill the tank from the only can containing fuel.
“Okay, push it out of here and down to the kiosk at the gate.”
Under the light at the gate the colonel examined the machine. He turned the petcock and let gasoline flow to the carburetor, twisted the throttle, checked the chain and the clutch.
The only way to see if it would run would be to start it. But not here.
“Start pushing.” He gestured to the northwest, toward the reactor facility. The soldier did as he was told.
It was hard work pushing the motorcycle along the dirt road in the darkness. The machine fell once and the soldier went on top of it. The colonel waited while he righted the thing and got it going again.
When they had gone about half a kilometer the colonel told the soldier to stop and put down the kickstand. Then he shined the flashlight into the soldier’s eyes and shot him while he stood blinking helplessly.
The man went down without a sound. The colonel dragged the corpse off the road into some weeds.