He jumped down. And it ran through it. Yes, he could fit the hose easily, when he needed to refuel from the chemical tank to the wing tanks. He could fill the tank from the input on its top surface, using the hose still in his hand. He threw it into the interior of the Antonov.
Wobble pump. Or whatever they used to fill the tank with chemicals — where?
Two-fifteen. No pump. He began patrolling the walls of the hangar for a second time, flashing and slipping the light carefully over every surface, every shadowy gap. No pump. Two twenty-five.
He was aware of the walkie-talkie in his pocket, its link with the UAZ and with Baikonur — with Serov; aware too, of the videotape, the cassette from the camera Priabin had used; aware most of all of time. He glanced at each minute that passed on the face of his watch.
He stood in the middle of the hangar, having completed his second unsuccessful patrol. Do something else. Two-thirty. He had done nothing, nothing so far — just a length of hose and the death of a man — do something else. Shuffle the cards, do something else!
He crossed to the doors. He still could not get up the nerve to switch on the hangar's main lights. He left the lamp, at the limit of its lead — caught on something? He could not delay to check. Reached the doors. Still unlocked, left that way by the corporal, found the handle, began to wind at it, listening to the magnified creaking of the two doors as they slid apart on their protesting metal rails. Moonlight crept forward like an inquisitive, wary animal. He opened them to their full extent.
He stood looking out at the shadowy form of the tractor parked beneath the firs. The refueling pump could be at the dump, locked in with the tarpaulin-covered drums. It didn't matter. Now he had to move the aircraft.
He ran across the moonlit space. Little or no wind. His cheeks were numbed by his speed through the icy air. He climbed into the tractor's cab, hunting with his fingers for the ignition like a blind man. Held his breath, switched on. The engine coughed, died. A second time, then a third. The noise of the engine turning over but refusing to fire was a violent, alarming sound in the silence. He could not help glancing repeatedly over his shoulder, in the direction of the collective's huddled buildings almost a mile away.
The engine caught, still reluctant, then roared as he overaccelerated. He slipped off the brake, heard the engine settle, then dragged the wheel over, turning the tractor out of the shadow of the trees toward the hangar. His head turned rapidly from side to side. Nothing.
He drove the tractor into the darkness inside the hangar. The ^o aircraft assumed identity slowly as his vision adjusted to the lack light. He tugged on the tractor's brake and jumped down. The silence after he switched off its engine was solid, pressing on his eardrums like a shock wave. He inspected the towbar with his torch, it had been used to tow the Antonovs in and out of the hangar.
Snatching up the lamp once more, he inspected the second Antonov's undercarriage. Two towing lugs. Good.
He climbed back into the tractor cab and started the engine— first time, he breathed out hugely. Very slowly, carefully, he turned the tractor — familiar again, like the airplane; a machine that belonged to his past. Then he backed it up to the Antonov's nose, juggling with the reluctant steering wheel until he heard the towbar clunk against the undercarriage strut. Stopped. Jumped out, checked the towbar's alignment with the towing lugs.
Two thirty-eight. He felt relief rob him of all strength for a moment and make his head spin with dizziness, then he raised the towbar and dropped it over the towing lugs, locking the two machines into a single unit.
Immediately he looked up at the gap of moonlight through the wide-open doors. Looked then at the wingspan of the Antonov, the four dull leading edges of the wings. He remembered the doors of the KGB hangar closing against the MiL's desperate race toward the air.
He stood for a moment, trying to retain the sense of his tasks as a hand of cards. Hose, rifle, keys, fuel outside — pump? — tractor… two-forty. Battery — he would have to manhandle the large battery onto the tractor and transport it to the Antonov after he had fueled up the tank in the cabin. It was charged, or almost charged — it would start the airplane. But could he lift the battery onto the tractor, then once more into the airplane? It came down to brute strength.
And the adrenaline of panic… leave it for the moment — leave it! He climbed with great effort into the cab of the tractor, wiping the smear of his exertions and fears from the inside of the windshield with his gloved hand, then with the sleeve of the parka. Turned to look back at the Antonov—
— jumped down and undipped the bonding wire from the undercarriage, throwing its crocodile clip and length of wire away from him like a reckless gesture of success.
He paused, then started the tractor once more, creeping the lumbering vehicle slowly toward the open doors. The image of the KGB hangar's similarly open doors kept flashing like a strobe light on the retinas of his eyes, making his body jump and tremble with anticipated disaster: just the tip of one wing, just the merest collision, just, just… the doors of that other hangar kept grinding closer together.
He gripped the wheel fiercely, yet his touch on its movements was delicate as he held the tractor to the center of the gap. Five yards, four… the tractor passed through the doors, they were alongside then behind him. Already, the propeller blades were glinting with moonlight in the tractor's side mirror.
He glanced back quickly, then relied upon the mirror to his right, watching the Antonov's starboard wings, watching the longer upper wing of the biplane, watching, watching… he wasn't breathing, his head was light with concentration… watching…
Through.
He grunted aloud. The Antonov rolled gently out into the open. He immediately turned the tractor's wheels, heading the aircraft through a wide semicircle toward the fuel dump at the back of the hangar.
Sweat bathed his forehead, freezing to an ache almost at once The noise of the tractor dinned at his eardrums.
Two forty-five.
The moon was old, low, sliding toward morning near the horizon. Daylight, a thousand miles.
"Gentlemen, another countdown adjustment — it is now T minus fifty minutes and counting."
Cheering, diffuse and roaring like a distant sea from beyond the tinted glass.
"Turn that bloody thing off," Serov barked. "For Christ's sake, you're like a bunch of fucking kids." Someone moved to switch off the only television screen relaying the scene in mission control, then to the PA speaker on one wall. Serov drew angrily on his cigarette. The ashtray on the table was filled with crushed and twisted butts. A dozen or more cardboard filters. "Let Grandpa Rodin get on with his game. You've got your work cut out right here."
The security room was hazy with smoke, stale-smelling and crowded, though there were no more than half a dozen in the search coordination team. The cheering died away beyond the tinted glass. They were all tired, all frustrated, all edgy, none more so than he. Childish rage brought no rewards, but seemed necessary. He waved a hand.
"All right, all right — back to work, back to work." Like a hen fossing. It wasn't their fault — but it would be his fault if they didn't locate and bring in the American pilot. He looked at his watch.
Three-ten. Dear Christ, three in the morning. Gant had been out of his hands since before four-almost twelve hours.