Winter Hawk (72 page)

He wandered to the line of tinted windows. Almost at once, he located Rodin surrounded by his staff, in front of the huge telemetry map that showed the snaking orbit of the American shuttle. Pointing, waving his arms—completely mad. Serov felt detached from the whole vast room down there. Where was Priabin? Had Rodin gotten rid of him at last?

No, there he was, still guarded. Playing—dear Jesus, playing cards with his guard and two white-coated technicians, away in one corner. Cards! The scene was surreal. What was he doing? Why was he still there? *

He would not admit that Priabin worried or unnerved him.

He turned abruptly from the windows and the thought. The radio reports, the replies of his team, filled the stale air of the room with their own urgency. Priabin's image nagged at his thoughts for a moment or two, then Gant replaced him. He had to have the American. That would be the basis of any standoff, would be the yardstick. Even the lifeline, he admitted with great reluctance.

And yet all these reports and acknowledgments are empty, negative.

The team had their backs to him like chastened pupils.
Bent
over radios, VDUs, maps. The large screen standing vertically on its stand in one corner was no more technological or revelatory than an empty blackboard in a classroom. Its colors and markings faded, flowed like dyes running in woolen garments, the kind of cheap
rub
bish they sold in many stores, the colors reformed in a new
pattern-

The map was computer-controlled, constantly updated from its accompanying console. Fifty different images of nothing had been its contribution thus far.

Serov strode over to it, confronting it, a new cigarette between his lips on which he drew loudly, repeatedly. Baikonurs southwestern quadrant occupied the fiber-optic screen. Marks and dots and squiggles crawled and moved on its surface like small flies on a pale wall. He studied the map, replacing its images with as many of the locations as he could recall. The river, bending away toward the bottom of the map, the old town straggling out into the desert, and the country reclaimed and cultivated through irrigation. The bottom half of the projection was a grid pattern like the aerial view of some American or new Siberian city. Collectives, clumps of trees, the tracks and roads that wound through the canal and dike system, individual cottages and huts; bams, stores, sheds, hen coops, garages. Every building was represented. And yet he wanted to lash out at the map with his good hand—the fist that had so damaged Priabin's pretty face—and reduce the map to a jigsaw puzzle of colored shards on the floor.

Every man at his disposal, army, GRU, and even police—he had excluded Priabin's KGB and confined some of them
pending further inquiries
, as he had instructed sardonically—every mobile or air unit was represented on the map. A separate color or shade of a color indicated the areas they had searched. Like a dye introduced to the body and shown up by X ray; areas clear of disease. These blotches merged at many points. Soon the whole map would be a single smear of color declaring that the American had escaped.

He refused to believe it. The unit designations wobbled and disappeared, then reappeared as positional reports were updated. The map did everything, it was supremely sophisticated, advanced. And utterly useless.

"What else can we do?" he exploded. He saw their shoulders twitch, heads snap up. One or two of them turned at once to look at him; others were more cautious. Yet it was not anger so much as frustration he expressed. "Tell me, boys, tell me. What the hell are

^w
e missing?"

They had all turned now, except the map operator, feeding in Vst another stream of positional information. Clear here, clear, noth-
^ln
g, nothing—and yet he's in there somewhere.

"Well?" he asked again, attempting bluffness. "What are we

hissing?"

"Sir—nothing." It was the lieutenant who had brought him the news about the MiL—and brought him Priabin.

"Nothing?" he replied acidly, barely controlling another outburst of temper. "Nothing?"

"Sir, we've never done anything as thoroughly as this." He had accepted the role of spokesman, reluctantly, of course. "We've covered everything. He hasn't got a vehicle—we've traced everything on wheels out there. He can't have got back into Leninsk or Tyuratam on foot." The lieutenant's face was screwed up like that of a child seeking an answer; a genuine attempt to help the teacher. But his shoulders shrugged at the same time.

"All right. I'm not criticizing," Serov began. Then he bellowed: "Shit—for Christ's sake! All this equipment, all the routines, the systems—how much are they worth now? Two fucking kopecks is about the mark, wouldn't you say?" He turned his back on them and strode across the room toward the tinted windows. Saw Priabin immediately. Still playing cards. The man was laughing at him!

He turned back to the men in the room, his face enraged. Gant was on foot, he had to be, or holed up somewhere. On the collectives, they were turning out their bedrooms, their cupboards, their privies for any sign of him. Everything had been or was being searched. It was ridiculous, unbelievable that they could find no trace of him.

"Ask them," he said hoarsely, waving a hand in front of him. It was an admission of bafflement, of weakness, but he had to make it. Then he'd settle Priabin. But first. . . "Ask them—every officer out there. I want ideas. Call every one of them in turn and ask for their ideas."

"Sir, that could take—"

"I don't care how long it takes!" Serov stormed. "They're the people on the spot. Ask them. Well, get on with it—get
started!

He was hot, sweating profusely with his efforts at the
wobble
pump. He paused only to wipe his sleeve across his brow or to glance at the watch on his wrist. Nothing else interested
him;
he was unconcerned with the cold, empty landscape around
him-
He was oblivious to the walkie-talkie thrust into his breast
pocket-
He had almost filled the chemical tank in the Antonov's cabin witn kerosene. It was three-thirty in the morning.

He
worked furiously at the pump, bobbing over it like some frantic lifeguard over the body of
a
rescued swimmer,
attempting
empty him of water. Watch, brow, pump—his horizons. In his haste, he had knocked over a drum of kerosene. Its sweet smell made his head spin. The odor was all around him like an invisible cloud.

Three thirty-two. He checked the gauge. He had transferred two hundred and ninety gallons to the chemical tank. Empty drums lay on their sides around him like litter. Spilled kerosene stained the ground. The loosened tarpaulin crackled and snapped behind him in the occasional gusts of wind. Helicopters had passed in the distance, always to the north. No vehicles had come down the track toward the hangar or the fuel compound.

He cradled his back in his hands for a long time, while his breathing returned to normal. Eventually, he crossed to the tractor. His strength seemed to ebb at the thought of the battery and its weight. You can lift it, you can ... He glanced at the Antonov. Close now, close.

He touched the ignition key of the tractor. Noise blurted from the walkie-talkie against his breast, stunning him. He whirled around in his seat as if someone were behind him. The noise slowly resolved into a human voice. Into a demand for an acknowledgment from the dead GRU private.

He did not dare answer.

His eyes frantically studied the night sky, examining individual stars, expecting them to shift, move, resolve themselves into navigation lights. They did not.

"Acknowledge."

They knew the man's name, his rank, his number. They wanted to speak to him, question him.

He did not dare reply.

But if he didn't, they'd come.

17: Fires in the Night

He did not dare
acknowledge.

Gant turned the ignition key, and the tractors engine roared. The noise clamored, drowning the small, insistent voice from the walkie-talkie. He put the tractor into gear, turning the wheel with a strength that surprised him; comforted him, too. The battery's bulk seemed to have increased. It dominated his thoughts. He accelerated along the side of the hangar, his eyes constantly checking the sky above and around him. Only stars, only the fading moonlight—

The voice was apparent again. While it repeated its summons over and over, it lost its threat. He turned into the hangar. The huge rear tires crushed something that cracked audibly, the wingtip of the stripped Antonov brushed against the top of the cab. He felt a tug at the tractor, heard a tearing noise. The door of the Battery Room was visible ahead of him as he turned on the tractor's headlights. Splashing light no longer mattered. He halted the tractor and stepped down.

As he entered the confined space of the room and the
engine
noise diminished, he realized that there was no sound from the walkie-talkie.
He
held it to his ear for a moment—
no,
nothing. He almost wanted to shake it like some clockwork toy that
refused
to work, but thrust it back into his breast pocket.
He
looked at his watch. Three thirty-eight. It had begun; suspicion,
realization,
counteractivity.

Breathing deeply, he checked the dials on the charger. The battery was almost fully charged. He undipped the leads, tested the bulk of the battery, felt for the carrying handle; it hardly slid
more
than a few inches as he heaved at it. He groaned aloud. Stood
back-

The bench on which the battery rested was a few feet from the floor. He would damage the battery for certain if he dropped it.

Come on, come on, he raged at himself. Try.

He turned to the tractor, headlight eyes staring at him, making him blink and squint. Come on!

He moved behind the bench, pushing at the battery. It slid reluctantly to the edge, almost teetering there? in danger of falling. He checked, then moved alongside the battery. He was sweating feverishly. He gripped the carrying handle in both hands and tugged. The battery slid off the bench onto the floor with a hideous concussive noise. He shone the flashlight but could find no damage. Back bent, he dragged the battery by its handle out of the Battery Room, across the dusty concrete to the tractor. His breathing was like a punctuated groaning.

This was the last thing, the last task. He gripped his arms around the battery, heaving and straining at it. He staggered with the weight, lurching against the side of the tractor, thrusting the battery like a ram against the cab, against, in, into the cab . . . gasped for breath, back aching, arms numb. He looked at the battery resting innocently on the floor of the cab, near the pedals.

Almost at once, a sense of his peril returned, and all but doubled him up with stomach cramps. He forced himself up into the cab. Accelerated slowly, the cramps passing. He drove out of the hangar, almost afraid to look up. Then making himself quarter the sky. Stars, moon, darkness. Nothing moved. Nothing on the track, either. He rounded the hangar, heading toward the clearly visible aircraft. Drew up next to it.

Three forty-three.

He slid the tractor inch by inch alongside the open battery compartment in the Antonovs tail. His hands were light on the wheel, his foot gentle on the pedal. He watched over his shoulder. Closer, closer. He could not attend to the night sky now; his horizon had become the edge of the cab, the distance to the open flap.

YesI

He switched off the engine and jumped down. Silence gradually seeped into his hearing. Silence, still. Only minutes now.

He would have to heft it into the compartment before rigging it. Stow and rig—how long? It won't matter shit if you don't get it into the compartment. He positioned himself, feet slightly apart, arms at each side of the battery, then he bent and strained, as if about to hurl the battery into the open flap. Paused, tried to raise his body, move his anns as they cracked with the strain. Lifted the battery, staggered in a turn, expelling his breath in a huge shout.

The battery banged into the compartment. He lurched forward with the effort and with the frantic desire to stop it from falling backward toward him. If it did, then he would never be able to hold it, would fall with it.

His imagination was feverish with anticipation, so that his hands felt as if the battery were beginning to topple. He thrust at it frantically, struggling it farther into the compartment, finally feeling it tilt into the shallow tray in which it was normally secured. Heaved it again without any sensation in his hands that its bulk had been squared as he intended, then he dimly felt it drop firmly into the tray and remain still. He kept his hands on the battery to calm them as sweat broke out all over his body, as if produced not by his effort but by the trembling weakness afterward. Christ!

He wiped his mouth with the back of one quivering hand. Three forty-five.

Where were they now? Suspicion or realization? Even coun-teractivity? Somewhere between realization and action, he decided. Close—

T minus fourteen minutes.