she wasn’t the enemy, despite what Lynch and company might think, despite what she herself might think.
Besides, he wanted to know what the hell had blown up. He could always slip away later.
The two of them headed down the station’s central corridor at a fast trot, then turned the corner into the passage to the workers’ barracks.
There they both stopped dead. There was no need to go any farther to see what had happened, where the explosion had been. The Russian guard lay sprawled on the floor, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, and the smell of explosive and charred wood filled the passage.
No Americans were in sight.
”It would appear that your friends have escaped,” Ligacheva said. “As has my guard, in a different sense.”
”They’re soldiers, Lieutenant,” Schaefer said. “That’s their job.”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she started to step forward for a closer look at the debris.
As she did, she heard the scrape of boots on concrete. Before she could take a second step, an American appeared in the doorway of the nearby storeroom and pointed an M-16 at her-the American captain, Lynch. Ligacheva started, and realized that her hands were empty, that she held no weapon. She had left her AK-47 back in the common room.
Annoyed with herself and seeing no alternative, she raised her hands in surrender. The American captain smiled.
”They do their job better than I do mine, it would seem,” Ligacheva said.
”For the moment,” Schaefer agreed.
”Hey, cop,” Lynch said, “speak English.”
”I wasn’t talking to you,” Schaefer said.
”Fine, then. Talk if you like. I don’t know what you two are jawing about, but you know what? Right now I don’t much care. We’ve got our thermal suits and our cold-weather guns and enough ammo to take down Rhode Island, so I don’t guess it makes any difference what you’re saying.” He gestured with the M-16. “Give me a hand with some of this stuff, and we’ll go join the others.”
Schaefer stepped up to the storeroom door; Lynch tossed him a heavy backpack, which he caught one- handed.
”So Philips is running the show again?” Schaefer asked, slinging the pack on his shoulder.
”The general’s talking to the brass, and until he’s done with that, I’m in charge,” Lynch said. He hefted another pack. “You know, Schaefer, somehow, as long as we’ve got this stuff, I don’t think the Russkies will give us any more trouble. Yessir, there’s a new sheriff in town around here.”
”Your playsuits and your weapons,” Ligacheva said in Russian. “Ah, you have your precious toys back, and now you are invincible!”
Lynch glowered uncomprehendingly at her. “Shut up and move,” he barked, pointing eastward down the main corridor. “Schaefer, what’s she saying?”
”She’s admiring your aftershave, Lynch,” Schaefer said. “Shit, who cares what she’s saying? The Russians aren’t the problem, Lynch! Can’t you get that straight?” He started striding down the corridor. “Where’s Philips? He’ll tell you.
”I told you, the general’s put me in charge while he sets up our satellite uplink,” Lynch interrupted.
”So tell this Russkie lieutenant to have her boys surrender ASAP, or we’ll spam ‘em into dog food.”
Schaefer grimaced. Lynch had apparently forgotten that the lieutenant spoke good English. Somehow, given what Schaefer knew of Lynch, this did not surprise him.
”What does he say?” Ligacheva asked in Russian. “His accent is too thick, and I don’t know all those words.”
”This asshole wants me to tell you that if you and your men don’t give up, we’re all dead.” They were approaching the side passage to the pipeline maintenance area-apparently that was where Lynch was directing them.
Ligacheva didn’t reply, and Schaefer glanced at her; somehow, he didn’t believe that she was quite as resigned to capture as she appeared.
”Got any ideas?” Schaefer asked.
”Just one,” Ligacheva said in Russian. “Fuck him,” she concluded in English. She grabbed Schaefer by the shoulder and yanked him in front of Lynch’s M-16, then started running for the smashed east door.
Schaefer was caught off guard and allowed himself to be shoved between Lynch and Ligacheva. He glanced back at Lynch, then at the fleeing Russian woman, and in an instant he decided he preferred Ligacheva, and to hell with nationalities; he’d rather join her out in the snow than hang around with Lynch and the other assholes Philips had brought along. He began running himself, following Ligacheva.
Behind them Lynch hesitated, unsure whether Schaefer was chasing the Russian or fleeing with her; in either case the cop was between himself and the woman, and he didn’t think the general would be pleased if someone shot his civilian advisor in the back.
The two of them ran out into the wind and snow while Lynch was still debating with himself, and then the opportunity was gone.
The bitter wind tore at Schaefer’s face as he ran; his cheeks went numb almost instantly, while from the neck down he remained eerily warm.
”Jesus, it’s cold,” he muttered as they charged up the slope, and the moisture in his breath froze into ice on his upper lip almost as soon as the words left his mouth. His short-cropped hair provided almost no insulation, and he didn’t have his helmet-his scalp tingled with cold.
”The temperature has been falling,” Ligacheva said.
”Christ, it wasn’t cold enough? Wasn’t it about sixty below?”
”Sixty…?” Ligacheva glanced back at him. “Do you mean Celsius?”
”Fahrenheit,” Schaefer said as they topped the ridge. “Not that it matters much. Where are we going, anyway”
”To join Sergeant Yashin, perhaps?” Ligacheva suggested. “He, at least, fights the right foe. Sixty below zero in Fahrenheit would be minus fifty or so, wouldn’t it? That sounds close. But it’s colder now, much colder.”
Schaefer did not want to think about the fact that he was exposing bare skin to something significantly more than sixty degrees below zero. That was colder than any place in North America ever got, and this Russian seemed to be taking it right in stride. “So where’s Yashin?” he asked.
Ligacheva pointed to the tracks in the snow, then ahead, to the northeast.
”Halt!” someone called in Russian.
Ligacheva stopped dead instantly; Schaefer stumbled another few steps, then dropped flat to the snow at the crack of a rifle shot.
He got cautiously to his feet to find the lieutenant facing a young Russian soldier with a smoking AK-47.
”Kazakov,” Ligacheva demanded, “what are you doing out here?”
”The sergeant left me on guard,” the soldier explained. “Why are you here, Lieutenant?”
”The Americans have escaped and captured the station,” Ligacheva replied.
Kazakov blinked at her, and Schaefer noticed that his lashes and eyebrows were white with frost. “What should we do?” he asked unsteadily.
”You have a radio?”
”Wait a minute…” Schaefer began, but before he could say any more, Kazakov swung the AK-47 to point at the American’s chest.
”Don’t shoot him,” Ligacheva said. “He’s our translator, and the only one of the Americans with any sense. Call Sergeant Yashin.”
”Yes, sir.” Kazakov lowered his weapon and reached for the radio in his shoulder pack.
Schaefer got slowly back up on his own feet and picked up his dropped pack, realizing as he did that he didn’t know just what Lynch had given him to carry, or whether it was worth hauling along.
This didn’t seem to be the time and place to check it out, however, with the two Russians watching him. Instead he stood and waited as Kazakov managed to make intermittent contact with Yashin’s expedition.
Schaefer couldn’t make out the conversation over the howling of the wind, and didn’t seriously try; instead he watched the ridgetop, waiting to see if Lynch or one of the others might be coming after them.
