“We’ll move around the side and stop him where the clearing meets the road,” Pekkala told him.
Kirov picked up the gun and the three men set off down the road, keeping inside the cover of the trees. They reached the place where the wide path intersected with the road. Here, they realized that the path from the clearing did not run straight out to the road. It curved to the left, so that the tank was out of sight. The only way Kirov would have a clear shot was if the tank drove out to the road.
Knowing they had little time to spare, the three men dashed across the road and slid down into the ditch on the other side. With trembling hands, Kirov set up the PTRD so that it was pointing directly down the path into the clearing. If Kropotkin tried to drive the T-34 out onto the road, Kirov would have a clear shot.
“Do you still think you can talk him out of it?” Pekkala asked Maximov.
“I doubt it, but I can probably buy you some time.”
“All right,” said Pekkala. “We’ll both go. We’ll have a better chance if we both try to reason with him, but if he won’t listen to us, get out of his way as fast as you can. He’s bound to head towards the road. He doesn’t want to get trapped in that clearing and he’s got nowhere else to go except down that path.”
“I don’t see how you can walk out there to face a tank with nothing more than words to shield yourself,” said Kirov.
Pekkala held out the titanium bullet. “If words don’t convince him, then maybe this will. No matter what happens, if you see an opportunity to take the shot, take it. Do you understand?”
“It’s a hell of a risk, Inspector.” Kirov took the bullet from his hand. “If this thing hits you, it will blow you to pieces.”
“That’s why I’m glad you’re a good shot.”
“At least you finally admitted it,” said Kirov, as he settled himself behind the gun.
Maximov and Pekkala set out towards the clearing.
Pekkala felt the open space around him as if it were a field of electricity. He saw the tank, hunched like a cornered animal at the clearing’s edge. With each step towards the iron monster, he felt his legs weaken. His breathing grew shallow and fast. He had never been so aware of the impossible fragility of his own body.
Leading away from the clearing, Pekkala saw woodsmen’s trails, too narrow for trucks, which snaked into the darkness of the forest. On one of these, a glint of silver caught his eye. Just off the path, partially camouflaged with branches, a motorcycle was propped against a tree. A pair of leather-padded goggles hung from the handlebars. The machine looked almost new and he could even see the maker’s name—Zundapp—emblazoned in silver on the teardrop-shaped fuel tank. In that moment, he realized it was the same machine he had seen the day Maximov had tried to gun him down outside the Cafe Tilsit. The motorcycle was the first indication Pekkala had seen that Kropotkin planned on surviving what he was about to do.
There was no sound except the fierce crackle of the flames still rising from the wreckage of the truck. Smoke swirled through bolts of sunlight which made their way down through the trees.
They reached the clearing, littered with strips of old bark from the logs which had been piled there by the foresters. Between them and the tank lay the body of the old man, facedown in the dirt, a tidy red circle in the pale blue cloth of his shirt.
The two men halted. The liquid from the bottle in Pekkala’s pocket sloshed as he came to a stop.
Now that he was only a few paces from the T-34, it seemed to Pekkala that his quarrel was no longer with Kropotkin but with the machine itself.
“Kropotkin!” shouted Maximov.
There was no reply. Instead, with a dreadful bellowing sound, the tank engine fired up. The noise was deafening. Two jets of smoke poured from its exhaust pipes. The T-34 lurched forward.
Instinctively, the two men stumbled back.
Suddenly the tank jerked to a stop, like a dog held by a chain.
“Kropotkin!” Pekkala called out. “We know you’re short of fuel. Just listen to us!”
But if his words reached through the layers of steel, the man in the tank gave no sign of having heard them.
The T-34 jolted towards them, spinning in its tracks. Mud and twisted shreds of bark sprayed out behind the machine. This time it did not stop.
“Run!” shouted Pekkala.
But Maximov was already on the move.
Pekkala turned and sprinted for the road. The bottle fell out of his pocket, but he did not stop to pick it up. He could feel the machine right behind him. He did not dare look back to see how close it was.
One moment Maximov was beside him, and the next he was gone as he dove away among the trees.
Pekkala kept running. The tank was almost on top of him. The weight of his coat held him back. His feet slipped on the muddy ground. With every gasp of breath, the acrid haze of burning rubber poured into his lungs.
He saw the main road straight ahead. He spotted Kirov in the tall grass growing along the edge of the ditch. The PTRD was aimed steadily at Pekkala.
The roaring grew louder. The tank gathered speed. Pekkala realized he would not make it to the road before the T-34 overtook him.
“Shoot!” he yelled.
The tank was closing on him, only a few paces behind.
“Shoot!” he screamed again.
And then he slipped. He barely had time to register that he had fallen before slamming into the ground.
A second later, the huge machine rolled over him, its tracks on either side of his body, their terrible clatter filling his ears. Pekkala was sure he would be crushed, like some animal run over by a car.
As the belly of the tank slid past above him, Pekkala saw a flash from the PTRD, and then there was a stunning crash of metal as the titanium round struck the turret.
The treads of the T-34 locked. The machine slid to a halt. The engine clanked into neutral.
The shot must not have penetrated the hull, thought Pekkala. Kropotkin is still alive.
Now the tearing rattle of the T-34’s machine gun sounded above him. A line of bullets stitched across the ditch. The trees where Kirov had taken cover began to fly apart, revealing pale, naked slashes as the bark was torn away.
Pekkala heard footsteps behind him. Turning his head, he saw Maximov running out of the woods, clumps of mud flicking up from his heels. Clasped in his hand was a bottle of the explosive mixture, the rag end already lit and spilling greasy flames as he sprinted towards the tank.
“Get away!” Maximov shouted. “Damn it, Pekkala, get out while you can!” In a few more strides, he had reached the T-34 and immediately climbed up onto the engine grille.
Underneath the tank, Pekkala struggled through the mud, clawing at the ground to free himself before Maximov detonated the explosives. Scrambling clear, Pekkala heard a crash of glass as Maximov smashed the bottle. Then came a roar as burning liquid splashed through the engine grille and into the T-34’s motor compartment.
Pekkala heard Kropotkin scream inside the tank.
He didn’t look back. Pekkala had just raised himself up, ready to sprint towards the road, when a wall of concussion blew him off his feet. He landed heavily, facedown, the wind knocked out of him. In the next instant, a wave of fire washed over him, spreading like fingers over the ground and setting it alight.
“Get up!” Kirov waved to him from the ditch. “Inspector, it’s going to explode!”
Pekkala climbed to his feet and ran. Behind him, he could hear the crackle of ammunition bursting inside the machine. He threw himself down beside Kirov just as the muffled thump of superheated cannon shells thundered out of the tank.
Still slapping the sparks from his clothes, Pekkala raised his head and watched as the machine tore itself apart.
The T-34 was now engulfed in flames. Its gun ports glittered red as fire consumed first the driver’s, then the gunner’s compartment.
A few seconds later, when the remaining ammunition exploded, the top turret hatch blew off with a shriek of tearing steel. It tumbled like a blazing wheel into the woods, leaving a spray of molten paint in its path. Now, from the ruptured hull of the tank, brilliant orange geysers, tinged with black, reared up into the sky.
