He blinked once, and concentrated on dragging the shapes into focus.
One of the American agents, the tall one, spotted Grigoriev’s open eyes and crossed to the bed in two or three long strides.
They watched him closely, these Americans. Not so much the medical people. They monitored his breathing and heartbeat, the dressings on his wounds, and the collection of machines wired to Grigoriev’s body like a telephone switchboard. The others, the ones in the dark suits, were never more than a meter or two away from Grigoriev’s bed. They even watched him when he was sleeping; he was sure of it.
The men in suits would be CIA. Or perhaps FBI. It didn’t matter. For Grigoriev’s purposes, one would work as well as the other.
He took a breath and steeled himself to speak. “Bring paper …” His voice was a whispering rasp.
The man in the suit stepped closer. “I’m Agent DuBrul …”
“Bring paper,” Grigoriev whispered again. The words hurt his throat, and he nearly ran out of air on the last syllable. He breathed heavily for a few seconds, gathering strength before continuing.
The American agent reached into his pocket and pulled out a notebook. “I have paper.”
“Write this …” Grigoriev rasped.
“I’m ready,” the agent said. He stood with pen poised above the notebook.
“Five … eight …” Grigoriev paused to catch his breath. “… two … nine …” He paused again. “One … five … five.”
He was fighting for breath now. His blood was roaring in his ears, and he could feel the wound in his chest pulsing in time to the pounding of his heartbeat. One of the medical machines close to his bed began bleating rhythmically.
The door flew open, and a doctor came straight to his bed.
“Two …” Grigoriev croaked. “… Zero …”
“That’s enough,” the doctor said. He leaned over Grigoriev. “Just relax, sir. Don’t try to talk.”
The agent looked at his notebook and read back the numbers. “Five-eight-two-nine-one-five-five-two-zero. Is that correct? What does that mean?”
“I said that’s
The pain came out of nowhere, squeezing Grigoriev’s heart like a fist. His vision was narrowing. “Tell …” The room was a tunnel now, the doctor and the agent at the far end of a lengthening tube of darkness. “Tell … your … president.”
The bleating of the machine became a continuous squeal, and the hospital room disappeared.
CHAPTER 23
Standing at the mouth of the cave, Sergiei Mikhailovich Zhukov looked down the snowy side of Koryaksky mountain toward Petropavlovsk, the capital city of his new nation. The missile attacks and naval bombardment had ceased — for the moment at least — and thick columns of smoke were rising from at least a dozen places in his city, to mingle with the slate gray clouds blowing in from Siberia.
Zhukov could not hear the sirens from this distance, but he was certain that they were in full-cry as emergency crews rushed to contain fires and rescue the injured. The distance also insulated him from the cries of the wounded and the dying. That was probably for the best. He could not allow his human instinct for compassion to influence his thoughts and actions. He must follow the example set by Lenin, and accept the fact that blood, and pain, and death were part of the cost of revolution.
Later, when the struggle was won and Russia had regained her rightful position as a world power, the people who died here would be properly honored. He would see to that. The history books would record this as the
He looked again at the columns of smoke. As he had expected, the majority of the damage appeared to be concentrated on the naval station at Rybachiy, and the Oblast government buildings at Ploshad Lenina. Those doddering old fools in Moscow were reacting exactly as he had predicted. By attacking the seat of his government and his largest military base, they hoped to cut off the head of his revolution and break its back in a single stroke. It obviously hadn’t occurred to them that he would not sit still and wait for their axe to fall.
The attacks had been brief, but surprisingly ferocious: an astonishing amount of firepower brought to bear in a very short period of time. The Ministry of Defense had taken a page from America’s book, and tried their own version of the infamous
Kamchatka was one of the most volcanic regions on the globe. Koryaksky, Avachinsky, and Kozelsky, the three dormant volcanic mountains closest to Petropavlovsk, were riddled with lava caves, and Zhukov had equipment, supplies, and men hidden in most of them. If the mighty United States military could not root Taliban fighters out of the mountains and caves of Afghanistan, the crumbling Russian army would have no better luck trying to pry Zhukov’s own forces out of the caverns and volcanoes of Kamchatka.
Not that they wouldn’t try, once they discovered that their clumsy attempt at a decapitation attack had failed. But he had no intention of letting things go that far.
Weapons were engines of power. The more terrible a weapon was, the greater its power. Lenin had understood that. So had Stalin and Khrushchev. But Brezhnev, with his love for expensive clothes and cars from America and Western Europe, had not understood. And the imbeciles who had stumbled along so blindly in Brezhnev’s footsteps had shown even less understanding of the simple logic of power.
The door to the command post opened behind him, and Zhukov turned to see one of his lieutenants walk between the pair of Chinese soldiers who guarded the entrance to the facility. The lieutenant strode briskly toward his new president, sparing not even a glance for the Chinese guards, as though even the act of looking at them was beneath him.
Zhukov understood the lieutenant’s feelings. Apart from the fact that Asians were ethnically classified as
Their black uniforms had been stripped of labels and insignia; they carried no identification or personal effects, and the serial numbers had been removed from their weapons. They had even been delivered by civilian automobile transport ships, with no traceable connection to the Chinese government. Their political masters in Beijing were taking every precaution to allow themselves maximum deniability if Zhukov’s plans for revolution went astray.
Of course, the Chinese soldiers had been told none of this. They had been told only that they were part of a covert combat action that was crucial to the defense of their country. They had all received bonuses equal to three years worth of pay, with the promise of a matching bonus upon successful completion of the mission. That, plus the rigid discipline of the Chinese military, was enough to ensure their functional loyalty for the moment at least.
Zhukov had no illusions that the chernyee bastards would stay bought, but he wouldn’t need them for very long. They were not the core of his revolution. They were merely the torch needed to light the fire.
The lieutenant halted, came to attention, and saluted. “Comrade President, there is news.”
Zhukov returned the salute and accepted a small bundle of papers from the lieutenant’s gloved left hand.
