Winter Hawk (82 page)

"No." Kedrov sighed plaintively. He was in some sort of suspension here, a place out of time. He felt safe. Even the armed guard had become familiar. Priabin had roughly rearranged his tiny world and frightened him with its new, uglier image.

"For Jesus Christ's sake, man, I'm here to save your life," Priabin hissed, his voice dropping violently in volume after the first two words as he remembered the corridor outside, the danger of the building around this room. His hands went forward in a plea. "Look, you have to come, you have to help me—you have to save your own life, don't you?" He shifted on the chair, his impatience heating his body, his back aware of the door behind him against which the chair and his weight were placed.

Kedrov seemed puzzled, as at some advanced mathematical concept. How much damage had Serov's drugs done to him? Would he be of any help anyway? Jesus—twelve twenty-seven.

The guard's removed uniform, even his boots, lay on the bed like a spread corpse. It would be easy for them to get out if only Kedrov would put on the uniform—put it on, you stupid bugger, for God's sake!

He couldn't explain his plan to Kedrov, not in front of the guard, who would eventually be found . . . knock him out, place the unconscious form under the bedclothes, it might be hours before . . . but Kedrov remained intractable.

He stood up, wary of leaving the door, jammed the chair beneath the door handle. Kedrov stood in his corner, for all the world as if he had wet his trousers, his face helpless, bruised by the mystery and danger brought into the room by Priabin. Priabin moved toward him, hands held out in front of him, palms outward.

"Listen," he said confidingly. "Listen. Serov's dead, you know that, but that isn't the end of it, Filip—yes, I was after you, too, I admit that—but you know about
Lightning
." Kedrov shook his head violently. "Yes, you do—I have to do something about that, and you have to help me. You have to help me, Filip. Only you can."

He
was standing only a yard from the man now. Thin, pale hair awry, his face wizened and aged by the past few days, body
pressed
into
the
corner
of the
room. Priabin took him by
the shoulders.
Kedrov flinched.

He leaned his head toward Kedrov and whispered. "There has to
be
a transmitter, doesn't there?" he asked, sensing a great
reluc
tance in himself. Kedrov seemed puzzled only by the fact that he was whispering. He could not risk the guard hearing, but he had to know. "A secret transmitter to put
Lightning
into operation. The general can't just press a button in front of everyone in mission control, now can he?" All the while, he was gently shaking Kedrov's shoulders, as if waking—Anna, he thought for a moment, then concentrated on the familiar, gentle tone of voice he felt required to use. "Some of them know, but not all. It's a secret, after all, so he can't press the button in full view of everyone, can he? People like you who aren't army—see what I mean?" Did it sound feasible now, put into words? Or did it sound ludicrous? Perhaps they all did know. No, his guard didn't seem to, the technicians with whom he had played bridge had always referred to
Linchpin,
and to the objective as being the placing of the weapon in orbit—oh, yes, they were going to test the weapon, sometime, on a dead satellite, maybe; they hadn't known anything more than that. It would be senior telemetry people, senior staff officers, the crew of the shuttle, Serov, and his second-in-command.

"See what I mean?" he persisted. Twelve twenty-nine. Shake his shoulders, gently, come on, Sleeping Beauty, wake up. Priabin felt sweat gather around his throat, beneath his arms. "They would have to have a secret transmitter, even a small control room, in order to align the weapon, acquire the target, and fire the laser beam—don't you see, Filip?" Come on, come on, you fucking cretin, understand—say yes, oh, Christ, please say yes. "See?" he managed to murmur sweetly, stepping back.

Kedrov nodded. His face had been screwed up in concentration. Suddenly, his brow unfurrowed, he looked younger. And he nodded eagerly like an idiot understanding a simple instruction. Thank God! Then he seemed to see Priabin's uniform and become frightened again. Priabin forced himself to smile, and leaned forward, taking his shoulders again, feeling their flinch, then relaxation.

"They'd have to be able to tap into the central control system, use its information for aligning and testing the weapon, and then fire it secretly—or they've got a duplicate of the entire weapon control system, down to tracking radars . . . ?" He could not keep the doubt from his voice. He wasn't telling, after all, he was asking^ Kedrov ought to know if he was on the right track. "Wouldn't they?"

Again, Kedrov nodded slowly, his face brightening. Christ, am I right or not?

"Look, Filip, help me with this and I'll help you get to the West.

God help me, I'll get you to the West. Understand?" He was shaking the man too vigorously now, but could not prevent himself. The room stifled him. It was going down the drain, he was running out of time, and he had no idea what to look for, where to look, or whether his idea was even feasible. Come on, for Christ's sake, come on. "Help me?" he pleaded, no longer whispering. "Help me!"

Hot, tense silence, as if the room were in the tropics, a storm gathering beyond the blinds. He released Kedrov's shoulders. The silence went on, pressing on Priabin. The guard's presence was vivid.

Eventually, Kedrov spoke. Normally, it seemed.

"To the West? To America? All the way to America?" Priabin nodded, stifling the noise and expression of his relief. Trying not to shiver with gratitude. "How will you do it?" The cunning of a simpleton. Kedrov was detached, half awake. Seemed drugged.

"Of course I'll do it. If we can do this, I can use my authority to get us out by car, train, even airplane, if you want. You'll be coming to Moscow with me. From there, it will be easy. Don't you see how grateful the Americans will be? They'll make you a millionaire!" He slapped Kedrov's upper arms in a pretense of delight. Come on, come on . . . twelve thirty-two. Fourteen minutes in the room, and they hadn't come with lunch for Kedrov and the guard, they could be here at any moment—calm down. Oh, Christ, Kedrov, you fell for the line about America once, do it again.

"A millionaire?"

"If you save their shuttle, yes."

"And you could—?"

"I can."

Strained silence. Priabin listened behind him, to the corridor beyond the door. Nothing. Come on . . .

"All right, all right, Colonel—I'll come."
He
had looked at the guard just before he spoke. It must have been the
contemptuous
hatred in his eyes. Kedrov had shuddered. The guard had pulled down the last remnants of the illusory world of this safe room. "Yes, yes," he continued.
"We
must hurry."

"Put on this uniform—quickly, Filip." Priabin said, moving at once to the door, the rifle now in his hands, snatched up from the top of a low table. "Put on the uniform and let's get out of here.'

He moved slowly toward the light. It had been coming up through the crack, through other crevices in the rock. Its source was in this cave. He listened through the blood drumming in his ears. Ropes hissed as they uncoiled, radios crackled; all noise was magnified. He looked behind him, but the darkness was still intact back there. He kept to the wall of the ca e, stepping with infinite stealth and care, to avoid being outlined by the light, which now seemed to be slipping toward him from beyond a bend. His breath was visible now, as well as being audible to him.

A shadowy curtain. Just twenty or thirty yards from him—what? The light was diffuse, almost greenish. Puzzling. As he reached it, he removed his glove and touched the wall of dull, solid light. Ice!

It was the stream issuing from above him, masking this opening. A frozen waterfall.

Bullets plucked and stung at the ice near him. He jerked his hand back and turned. The flashes from invisible muzzles were forty or fifty yards behind him He crouched back against the rock, his head turned toward the ice—

—where a shadow dangled and shifted beyond the waterfall, and something banged against the ice as if knocking at a door. He switched the^ Kalashnikov to automatic. Light was leaking more strongly around the edges of the waterfall as if it were no more than a curtain hurriedly drawn across this gap to the outside world. He aimed, then squeezed the trigger, flinching against the thought of ricochets.

The waterfall starred and crazed like a windshield in a highspeed accident. The steel-cored bullets penetrated the ice just where the shadow dangled. At once it became a different outline, somehow heavier and inanimate. Fire increased behind him in response to his own shooting, bullets winging away or lodging in the shattered waterfall. He edged onto the ledge at the side of the ice, its scarred, green surface only inches from his face. Pressing his back against comforting rock, he inched along the ledge, into—

—sunlight hurting his eyes, almost blinding him. Into a plucking wind, rattling the parka and seeking to dislodge him. The shadow he had seen through the waterfall was as diffuse as before, as he tried to focus his wet eyes. The shadow took on substance. Hanging from a nylon rope. Foot and handholds kept the body upright, almost alert. The camouflage jacket was torn by bullets and was wet with melting ice chips and blood.

There was more firing behind him. He looked up. The rope came down from a clifftop perhaps fifty feet
above
him.
It might
only be a ledge or outcrop, or the slope of
the mountainside.
He
had
been descending steadily. The mountain may have sloped like a roof, following that descent. The rope trailed away down into a canyon. A river rushed past the point where the frozen stream ended. There was a single railway line, and a railway tunnel. Between the track and the river was a broad, four-lane highway. The canyon wound downward toward the plain of Ararat, toward, toward—

A railway junction. The one he had seen through the glasses. The river below met the Araks there. It was the road junction too. A military highway, for certain, wide enough for tank transporters and the heaviest army vehicles. It was the border. Perhaps two or three miles away. Say two . . .

Safety. He glanced up. Where was the rest of this
spetsnaz
trooper's unit? What of those behind him? There must be at least three of them still alive, hurrying now toward the waterfall and the cave mouth, knowing he had made an exit that they could still prevent from becoming an escape.

It was automatic, almost. A reflex. He used the folding stock of the Kalashnikov like a hook, catching the rope that dangled freely beneath the body. Pulling it toward him. Touching it with his gloved fingers. The sunlight seemed paler now, his eyes could cope. He gripped the rope. Glanced down, then at the waterfall's close edge. Then tugged on the rope. The body twitched, but the rope was firm. He held it in both hands, after slinging the rifle across his back, and jumped.

His feet came back with a hollow boom against the waterfall like a signal to those inside. He was now the shadow, the easy target.

He abseiled. Hands burning, legs ricocheting like falling sticks off the rocks, off the frozen water, off ledges and outcrops. He bounced, dreading the weakness of his ankles, the proximity of the rock, anticipating injury, and the quick, certain fall that would follow. He paused, straining to recover his breath, his hands waking to a shriek of pain and heat. He looked down. Forty feet below him, the end of the rope twisted and wriggled like an injured snake.

He dropped down farther, gathering momentum once more. The gleam of polished track, the rock enlarging and blurring close to his face, the thud and ache of his feet and legs—the end of the rope-He slithered to a sitting position. It was another hundred feet to the railway line and the highway, but it did not matter, the slope was shallower now.

It was only a moment before ropes whistled and rattled down beside him. The noise of distant rotors picked up, quickening ana nearing. He glanced at the sky above the canyon. A dot, beating up the twists of the river toward him. Frantically he weaved through the jagged outcrops, jumping, sliding, dodging. Shots had to be ignored until he was hit . . . he wasn't hit, not hit, not yet, not hit. .

He slithered the last yards, now perhaps a hundred feet away from the fall of the stream. The railway track and the road ran due south, down toward the enlarging gunship driving up the canyon. Its noise had begun to echo from the cliffs. He reached the railway. Bullets struck near him. The tunnel was a hundred, two hundred yards away—

One fifty, he decided, already running. He adjusted his step to the gaps between the ties, more and more assuredly landing on those that fell between each stride. Concentrating his attention on his leading leg, counting, marking off, selecting the next tie. The river was below and to his right; he heard the gunships noise. He dismissed the shots, those he heard . . . not hit, not yet, not hit . . .

The tunnel, wobbling in his vision as he glanced up, was closer. The gunship, barely recognizable through his fear and effort, was much closer, moving at a terrifying speed that made his legs seem leaden, his body exhausted. He was slowing down, almost still, out of energy. The gunship came on, the tunnel hardly neared, the ties were blurred, gray concrete lines drawn like trip wires across his path He felt light-headed, off-balance; the tunnel was receding now, indefinite, illusory.