directions.
They weren't static, dug-in dishes, but on stands, with ice-covered sandbags over the legs to keep them in position. Like the Finnish ones, they, too, were clear of snow and ice, and the whole area around them was trampled down. Beyond them, maybe forty yards away, was the dark shape of the rear compound wall.
I turned the corner and realized that hidden in the shadow of the top windows' dark triangles were two more windows on the ground floor, without light. All four mirrored the ones on the front of the target.
To get under the first window took five paces, making it twenty two in total so far. I crouched by three thick, snow-covered satellite feeds which came out of the snow and disappeared into a hole in the brickwork directly beneath the first ground-floor window. The gap around the cabling was roughly refilled with concrete.
The downstairs windows on this side were also barred. I could now see chinks of light around the edges of the frame I was crouching beneath.
Lifting my eyes to the sill for a closer look, I saw that the glass was boarded over from the inside.
I heard a humming noise coming from the other side of the boards, high-pitched and electrical, unlike the throbbing diesel further along in the other building. No human voices, but I knew they were there somewhere. I never thought I'd find myself longing to hear Tom asking for a cup of herbal tea 'My body's a temple, know what I mean, Nick?' but it didn't happen.
Stepping over the cables, it took me another nine slow and careful paces to the next window to add to the twenty-two. I'd soon know how much det cord I'd need to take off the reel.
This window was also boarded up, but there was a little more light spilling out. Two sheets of quarter-inch plywood, which should have been flush against the glass, were not, leaving a half-inch gap on the right-hand side.
Doing a Houdini, I adjusted my head to try and get a good viewing angle, pressing it right up against the iron bars, the hat working as a perfect insulator for my head. I got a glimpse of very bright lighting, under which I could see a bank of about five or six gray plastic PC monitors facing away from me, their rear vents black with burned dust. Judging from what I could see, this rear half of the building was one big room.
As I adjusted my head in an another attempt to see more, everything inside went dark. A body blocked my view. I watched as he leaned forward on his arms, his head moving from side to side as he studied the different screens in front of him, no more than two feet away from me. He must have been about mid-thirties with short dark-blond hair on top of a very square head, and he was wearing a patterned crewneck sweater that any geek's mother would have been proud of. He started to smile, then nodded to himself as he turned toward the gap. He was no more than a foot away now as he answered a quick aggressive Russian voice behind him. He looked down at something, and whatever it was he was happy about it. Maybe Tom had come up with the goods for them and they had Echelon. If so, it wouldn't be for long.
He picked up a sheet of printed paper and waved it at whoever was behind him, then he moved out of my line of vision, back into the room.
It was probably the Christmas lunch menu from the Space and Naval Warfare Systems Command in San Diego. They seemed to know everything else that was happening there.
At least I knew where the kit that had to be destroyed was all I needed to find now was Tom. I waited for further movement for another fifteen minutes with my eye to the gap, but nothing happened. I was getting very cold and my toes were numb. Lion King told me it was only 5:49; it was going to get a whole lot colder yet.
I moved to the next corner of the target, toward the generator. It was another five paces, which made thirty-six in total. I was happy; there was more than enough det cord.
I turned right and walked down the small gap between the two buildings, stepping over the generator cable lying in the snow. Just as with the satellite cables, a hole had been punched through the target's brickwork and the gap refilled with handfuls of concrete.
I made my way back to the generator building and started to prepare the kit. The first thing I checked was that I still had the batteries in my inside pocket: In dems, it's the ultimate sin to lose control of the initiation device, on a par with leaving your weapon more than an arm's length away from you. I'd been keeping them close to my body to stop them getting sluggish in the cold; they needed to work first time.
I didn't need light for unrolling the det cord because I knew what I was doing, but the generator noise would drown out any human movement coming into the building, so I had to keep my eyes on the entrance while I was working. Placing the reel between my feet, I held the loose end in my right hand and stretched out my arm, pushing the det cord into my armpit with my left. I did that thirty-six times, plus an extra five to cover what I needed to do on the wall this side of the target. I added two more for luck, cutting it with my blackened Leatherman. I then laid it on the floor, next to the charges. This was now called the main line, and would be used to send the shock wave to all the charges at once via their det tails.
The next thing I had to sort out was the little brain wave I'd had for the fuel tank. What I had in mind was the most spectacular explosion this side of Hollywood. When the fuel tank blew it wouldn't be the most productive bang in the world, but the effect would be phenomenal.
I climbed the ladder of the tank with the det cord in my hand, slowly un feeding it from the reel. When I lifted the flap on the tank, the flashlight beam hit on the surface of shiny liquid that filled about three-quarters of the cylinder. After tying a double knot on the end of the cord, I pulled the gas-station shopping bag from my jacket. In it was the spare four-pound ball of PE that any dems man worth his salt always carries to plug up any holes or damage to a charge. The smell wasn't too bad out in the open as I ripped off about half and played with it to warm it up.
Once it was pliable enough, I squashed it around the double knot, ensuring it had worked its way into the gaps of the ties, and finally I taped the whole thing up to keep the PE in place.
I lowered the ball of PE into the tank by its string of det cord, stopping when it was dangling about two or three inches from the surface of the fuel. It only takes a split second for fuel to vaporize after an explosion, but when that detonates, the effect is volcanic. If I fucked up this job, it would certainly give the appearance that I'd given it my best shot. How could Val doubt my word when the fireball would probably be big enough for him to see it in Moscow?
I taped the det cord onto the side of the fuel tank, then climbed back down the ladder, carefully unreeling the rest of the cord as I moved toward the hole in the wall. I wanted to cut a long enough length so that, once laid out, it would reach the target house. Nine extra arm's lengths seemed to put me on the safe side. I made the cut, then started to push the end of the det cord through the hole in the wall.
Just then, light came bouncing down the gap from the front of the buildings. I couldn't hear anything above the generator. I quickly pulled the det cord back in and froze. The only things moving were my eyes; they flicked from the hole to the entrance, waiting for any movement from either direction.
A shiny wet pair of waders and a pair of normal outdoor boots were illuminated by the beam of light as it searched for the generator cable. What worried me was the AK wader-man had hanging down by his side, its large foresight at the end of the barrel level with his knees.
Once over it, they carried on toward the rear and moved out of sight.
There wasn't any talking, or if there was, I couldn't hear it above the generator. I didn't even hear their feet in the snow.
They must have been doing something with the dishes. I waited; there was nothing else I could do. No way was I going out there again until I knew they were safely tucked up back in the house.
I lay on the frozen mud and waited for their return, my eyes still moving between the gaps in the brickwork. The cold soon penetrated my clothing, numbing my skin. The six or seven minutes it took before I saw the flashlight flickering about on the snow again didn't pass quickly enough.
Craning my neck to get a better view, I watched their silhouettes fade as they reached the corner of the building. I waited a few more frozen minutes in case they'd forgotten something or realized they'd fucked up and had to come back to redo it.
While I waited the lightbulb went off again. When I eventually got to my feet, I went across to the vehicles and let down their tires. The fireball ought to sort out the vehicles and guarantee they couldn't be used in a follow- up, but it didn't hurt to play safe.
I grinned stupidly to myself as the air hissed out and the tire rims settled on the frozen mud. Watching the hole in the wall for flashlight, I was eight years old again, crouching by my stepfather's car.
Moving back to the kit, I pushed the det cord through the hole in the wall once more, then cut several eight-
