As he listened, he looked at his watch. Just before two in the morning. The guards called in or were called every thirty minutes. Routine. No one seemed to want to move them on. He had taken up his position beside the tractor because from it he could watch the road to the collective, the sky to the north from which direction the gunships would come, and the hangar and the UAZ. Only the battery was charging; that was the only progression.
The guard was almost forty yards away, yet he caught nearly every word spoken.
"…as the grave, sir. Sure. Oh, yes, we've patrolled regularly." They hadn't left the comparative warmth of the hangar except to call in or to answer a call. Once, one of them had come through the small door, urinated briefly against the hangar wall, presumably because he couldn't locate the toilet inside, and hurried back in out of the cold. They had kept the lights switched off, as he had heard them ordered to do. Flashlight beams had flickered in there from time to time. "Matter of fact, that's why I was a bit late, sir — just finished my patrol… nothing doing, sir — picked the wrong… Yes, sir, of course, sir." Gant felt himself drawn into the one-sided conversation, as into warm sleep. He rubbed his arms, waking himself. "Me, sir? Back on patrol, leave the private here, sir — yes, sir.w The corporal actually stood to attention for a moment before he flung the microphone back into the vehicle with a muttered curse. He opened the judas door and bellowed: "You jammy bastard, get out here! Come on, move it!"
"Corp—" Gant heard from inside.
"Don't corp me, you lucky sod. I'm to go back on routine patrol, son, while you take time out here smoking fags and guzzling vodka."
"Sorry, corp—"
"You will be, son, you will be," the corporal murmured, leaning over the other soldier. "Right, I'll be back in an hour. I'll leave the walkie-talkie with you. Make sure you keep in touch. And make sure you do the patrols, my son — understand?"
"Yes, corp."
"Jammy bastard."
Gant watched as the corporal climbed into the UAZ and started the engine. It roared in the silence, then the vehicle moved off quickly, churning up dust, squealing along the track toward the collective, its headlights bucking and bouncing like a runaway horse. Its engine noise faded. The private raised two fingers vigorously, twice, then turned back to the judas door. He paused, then ducked his head and reentered the hangar, closing the door behind him.
Gant's hands jumped and twitched with tension-becoming-excitement. He climbed awkwardly to his feet, stamping them at once to rid his legs of cramp and cold. He wasn't tired now. He had no further time to waste. Two o'clock. His hand banged the tractor's huge rear tire like the shoulder of an old friend.
Crouching, he moved swiftly across the forty yards of open ground to the side of the hangar, the Makarov ready in his right hand in case.
The judas door did not open. He paused, breathing deeply, then hurried once more, around the building's circumference, toward the lean-to, approaching it from the rear of the hangar. His boots brushed through straggling, icy grass. He found the loose panel 01 corrugated sheeting, knelt, then wriggled into the hangar. Moonlight gave him enough light to see by. He moved carefully P3^ empty drums, cans, boxes, the fat tires, flicking on the flashlight only to locate the handle of the door. Touched it, breathed softly* remembered whether or not the door had squeaked when he had first opened it — no — opened the door. The pale darkness of the hangar rustled. Smell of kerosene, dust, oil, sausage. He waited the crack he had opened, sensing rather than seeing the details of the hangar. Moonlight on the nearer Antonov.
Where? Where was the guard? Impatience surged through him. Close. The hairs rose on the back of his neck. Something scuffled, a boot heel rather than a rat. Close.
He slipped through the gap in the door. Paused, head turning slowly from left to right, right to left… breathing? Could he hear that much, that clearly? His shoulder quivered as if anticipating a hand felling heavily on it. He saw the door to the off-duty room was open. A poor light filtered from it like a leak of yellowish water. Rustling? The turning of pages. A grunt of what might have been satisfaction. The shuffling of feet. There was no time, no space for the complications of hitting the guard, tying him, being aware of him through the hour or so that still lay ahead. He had to kill him.
Gant studied the floor between himself and the open door. The light — of a flashlight? — seemed a little stronger, yet hardly spilled beyond the dark rectangle of the door. The man could be sitting on one of the battered easy chairs, or standing at the table. He would have no more than moments in which to locate, aim, kill. It was six steps to the open door.
Noise of gurgling, like a distant tap. The man was drinking something. There was nothing between himself and the door. He moved on tiptoe, pausing between each step. Sigh or grunt, magnified. Rustling of pages, a muttered oath regarding the light, the scraping of chair legs, table, then…
He was in the doorway, the Makarov level with his hip. A pool of flashlight beam, some glossy pages open on the stained table; the bulk of the soldier already half-risen. He did not distract himself ^h a glance at the mans face, but simply fired twice.
The body began falling in slow motion, but the sense of having ^ed snapped Gant's time sense back to normality. The body slid Ward the table, moving it in a painful scrape on the floor, then toppled backward, half over one of the ragged chairs. To lie moonless.
Gant waited, the noise of the two shots separating then blurring f^they echoed in his ears. Over. He felt nothing. The man had no more than a voice, a dark form. His face was hanging over chair s arm, out of sight, and Gant had never seen his features. He moved forward into the room, his hand touching the magazine— a naked girl — then the flashlight located the walkie-talkie. A moment of fear because he was alone with the machine and felt its contact with the UAZ, with Baikonur.
He left the room quickly, shutting the door behind him, and crossed the hangar to the Battery Room. Flicked the beam of the flashlight, fading noticeably, at the dials. Almost, almost — certainly charged enough by the time he… Thoughts tumbled. He regimented them like a hand of cards.
Engineer's office. He crossed the concrete floor, collecting the lamp and its coiled lead on his way. Quickly, quickly… his hand dabbed along a wooden board littered with keys hanging from hooks, tractor, one was labeled. He snatched off the keys, then the ignition keys for the Antonov. Then returned to the storeroom, wiping the glaze of the lamp around its dusty, littered space until he found a crowbar. Keys, means of opening the fuel compound; two down.
Waved the lamp again, crouched on his haunches, scuttled like a crab in that position, poking the light into dark corners. Webs, the hardly noticed scurry of a rat he never saw, dirt on his fingertips, spilled paint long dried — a length of rubber hose. Triumphantly, he tugged it out from behind stacked, empty boxes and drums that had once held the chemicals used in crop dusting. Hardly pausing, he returned to the hangar, climbing into the second Antonov as if returning to a familiar location. As he squeezed into the cockpit, he felt his frame too big for the interior of the aircraft; as if it could hardly contain his energy. In the light of the lamp, he inspected the panel that operated the pump for the chemical tank. Stuck-on labels. power On-Off; pump On-Off. Just the two switches and a light to register they were operating. Primitive. Familiar. He returned to the cabin, bending to inspect the spray outlet. No spray bars had been fitted to the underside of the fuselage. The outlet pipe ran into the floor of the plane.