With his gun in one pocket and the flashlight in another, he climbed aboard the motorcycle and eased the kick starter down until he felt compression. Then he raised himself up and gave a mighty kick.
No.
Again.
Nothing.
Again.
The fourth time the machine chugged once, but he fed it too much gas and it died.
This time he got all of his body weight into the downstroke of his leg and the machine gurgled into life. As he sat astride the saddle and waited for the engine to warm, the colonel used the flashlight to check his wristwatch. Almost an hour gone. One hour of darkness left.
Carefully he disengaged the clutch, popped the transmission into gear, and eased the clutch out. The engine almost died but he caught it with the throttle and let the clutch engage. The sound the engine made was well-muffled since the machine was fairly new.
The colonel brought it to a stop a hundred meters short of the gate to the reactor facility. He walked from there.
Two of his men were waiting by the door.
“We thought we heard an engine a few moments ago,” one told him.
“You did. A car. I parked down the road in case someone comes by. Are the detonators set?”
“Yes, sir. All you need to do is set the timer. Do you want us to go on down and sit in the car until you come?”
“Okay. I need maybe ten minutes. I’ll send the others along.”
When these two were about twenty-five feet away with their backs to him, he used the silenced submachine gun.
It wasn’t fair, but there it was. He had transport for one. The reactor had to be destroyed. After he had shot them he walked over to where they lay and put a bullet into each man’s skull.
One of his men was in the control room. “I’ve got a car parked down the road out of the light,” he said. “Go sit in it until I get the device armed.”
“How much time are you going to give us?”
“What’s the maximum possible time?”
“One hour.”
“Then that’s what we have.”
“That would be a lot if we had a helicopter,” the man objected reasonably, “but we don’t. What if we have a flat tire or this car breaks down?”
The colonel wasn’t in the mood. “We take our chances. Where’s Vasily?”
“In the reactor space checking the wires and detonators one more time.”
“Go wait in the car.”
Just before the man reached the door the colonel took the submachine gun off his shoulder and shot him. As he was lowering the weapon the door to the reactor clicked shut.
He heard a noise, running feet. Damn! Vasily.
The colonel popped the magazine from the weapon and replaced it with a full one. After he had checked to ensure it was seated properly, he opened the heavy, lead-lined door to the reactor space and slipped in.
A bullet smacked into the wall.
What else can go wrong? Sweat broke out on his face. A more dangerous place for a gunfight would be hard to imagine. One stray bullet could sever a critical wire or punch a hole in a pipe carrying molten sodium or water or steam or…
He was inside against the wall, the door on his right side. Another bullet whapped against the wall.
The silenced pistol was in his left hand, the submachine gun in his right. Where was—
A bullet caught him in the hip and half turned him around. He tossed the submachine gun and fell heavily on his face, his right hand palm up at an odd angle.
The trick was old and hoary and he was a fool to try it. If he had had a moment to think he wouldn’t have. If Vasily kept his wits about him or used a smidgen of sense… But he didn’t. He didn’t even shoot the colonel a second time, a mistake the colonel certainly wouldn’t have made.
The colonel lay like a sack of very old potatoes. He felt the catwalk vibrate from Vasily’s footsteps and he even got a glimpse of one foot. Still he lay absolutely motionless, muscles slack, scarcely breathing, his left hip on fire as the numbing shock of the bullet wore off. When he heard the door begin to open beside him he moved — rolled and instantly triggered the pistol into Vasily’s foot, then his leg, then as the man fell, into his body. He fired again and again as fast as the pistol would work. When it was empty he stopped shooting.
Vasily sighed once as the spent cartridges tinkled on the concrete far below. He didn’t inhale again.
The colonel got slowly to his feet and examined the location of the bullet hole in his clothing. Blood was oozing out. The catwalk where he had lain was smeared with it.
He put his weight on the injured hip. Well, the bone wasn’t broken, although the wound hurt like hell. He looked at Vasily to ensure he was dead, then popped the empty clip from the automatic and inserted a full one from his jacket pocket. When that was done he retrieved the submachine gun. He hung it over his shoulder on its strap.
He made his way along the catwalk and descended the ladder onto the top of the reactor shield.
Thank God the charges were there, still properly installed and wired up. He got out his dirty handkerchief and wiped his face and hands as he examined the timer mechanism.
One lousy hour.
He pushed the test button on the battery, verified that the green light came on, then released the button.
One stinking, tiny, miserable little hour.
For it came to him then that his luck had gone very bad. Everything had gone wrong. All of his experiences in life had taught him that luck runs in cycles — sometimes good things happen for a while, then bad. And he was deeply into the bad just now. Was this hole in his hip the last of the bad things, or only the next to last?
He was not a religious man. Nothing in his forty-four years of life had even suggested possible resources other than his own skill, courage and endurance. Yet just now as he stared at the detonator he sensed that his own resources probably weren’t going to be enough.
He twisted the knob that turned the needle on the clock face. He turned it to the maximum reading, sixty minutes. He consulted his watch.
Now he looked about, again tested his weight on his injured hip, savored the sharp edge of the pain, wiped his hands one more time.
This was necessary. They would not have sent him if it weren’t.
Oh, hell. Everyone has to die sooner or later and he wasn’t afraid of it. Dying is the easy part, like going to sleep. Getting to that moment can be a real bitch, though.
He looked again at the sweep second hand on his watch. When it swung by the straight-up position he pushed the button to start the timer on the detonator. Exactly one hour from now, at 5:07 A.M. If this clock keeps good time.
He watched it tick for a few seconds, then crossed to the ladder and went up it, favoring his bad hip only a little.
In the control room the colonel scanned the dozens of gauges and dials. With a sure hand he reached for the master control and began inching the rods out of the core while he kept a careful eye on the temperature gauges. Another five minutes passed before he was satisfied with the new stabilized readings. The reactor was now at almost 80 percent power.
When he left the building he removed the wooden doorjamb and let the outside door close and lock.
Fifty-three minutes.
He limped past the bodies sprawled near the gate and turned right on the road. The breeze cooled the sweat on his face but he didn’t notice as he hurried along.
He got on the motorcycle and checked that the fuel was on. When he tried to shift his weight to his left hip and push up to get some leverage for the kick start lever the pain was so bad he almost fell over.
Gritting his teeth, he tried again. This time he managed to kick the bike through but it didn’t start.
Again with no luck.
The third time it fired and he gave it just enough gas to keep the engine going. He almost collapsed onto the seat. His leg was wet with blood. How long before he passed out? He fumbled for the headlight switch. There. But the headlight didn’t come on.