Savina sat in the brightly lit control station, flanked by two technicians. They were running final diagnostics on two computers. The station was in a converted subbasement bunker beneath one of the abandoned apartment buildings. There were no windows. Their eyes on the world came from seven LCD screens wired into the walls. They displayed video feed from the cameras in the tunnel and at the operation site.
She stared at the parked train for another breath, then stood up, unable to remain seated. She felt a familiar crick in her back. She had failed to take her steroid injection, too busy with all the final preparations. She turned away from the view of the train. Not because it hurt to look which it did but because anxiety ran through her.
She checked her wristwatch. It was more than half past eleven o'clock, and she had still not heard from Nicolas. She exited the control room, so the others did not see her wring her hands. It was a weak matronly gesture, and she forced herself to stop. She headed to the stairs and climbed toward the level above.
Not with any destination in mind, only to keep moving.
From her contacts in the intelligence community, she had already heard the rumblings of an accident at Chernobyl. A radiation leak. Dead bodies. The place was being evacuated. And if Nicolas had been successful, such a mass departure was too late. Perhaps her son had been caught up in the resultant chaos and had been unable to report to her yet. Her operation was set to commence in another forty-five minutes, once she heard confirmation from
Nicolas.
As she climbed the stairs, she imagined him gloating in his success, possibly even enjoying a secret tryst with little Elena. It would not be unlike Nicolas to celebrate first and attend to business afterward. Anger tempered her anxiety.
She finally reached the floor above the control station. It had been converted into a domicile for the technicians: bedrooms, exercise space, and a central communal area full of sofas and dining tables. The only occupants at the moment were ten children. She knew each by name.
They turned to stare at her, their heads swiveling all at once, like a flock of birds turning in midflight. Savina felt a flicker of apprehension, a recognition of the foreignness of their minds. The Omega subjects were savants so talented that their skills crossed the threshold of the physical to a realm where Savina could not travel.
Boris, a thirteen-year-old with eyes so blue they appeared frosted, seemed almost to be studying her. His talent was an eidetic memory coupled with a retention that frightened. He even remembered his own birth.
Why were we not allowed to go with the others? he asked.
More heads nodded.
Savina swallowed before answering. There is another path for all of you. Do you have your bags packed?
They just stared. No answer was necessary. Of course their bags were packed. The question displayed the level of her own nervousness. Before her lay the power that would fuel the Motherland into a new era. And deep down, Savina knew such a power remained beyond her full comprehension.
We will be leaving in an hour, Savina said.
Those ten pairs of blue eyes stared back at her.
Footsteps sounded behind her. She turned as one of the technicians joined her.
General-Major, he said, we're having some glitch with the blast doors on the other side of the tunnel. If you could advise us how to proceed.
She nodded, glad to focus her mind upon a problem.
She followed the technician back to the staircase. Still, she felt those ten pairs of eyes tracking her, cold and dispassionate, icy in their regard. To escape their judgment, she hurried down the stairs.
Open the doors! Monk called to Konstantin.
From inside the control station, the boy nodded. Electric motors sounded, and large steel gears began rolling the blast doors out of the way, splitting down the middle.
Konstantin came running over to him, out of breath. Five minutes, the boy warned.
Monk understood. Konstantin had sent the tunnel's digital camera system into a diagnostic shutdown and reboot. The clever kid had engineered a five-minute blackout. They had that long to evacuate the children from the train before the cameras were back online.
There was little else he could do. The master control station lay at the other end of the tunnel. Once the subterfuge was detected, the other station would kill the power to Konstantin's shack.
They had only this one shot.
As the doors parted, Monk squeezed through, followed by Konstantin. Marta also loped after them. The old chimpanzee wheezed with exhaustion, but she didn't slow, even passing Monk.
The old girl knew they had to hurry.
A hundred yards away, the train rested on the tracks.
Monk ran toward it, hopping a bit on his wounded leg. Konstantin called out in
Russian, yelling at them to get off the train and out the blast door. The boy waved both his arms.
Just clear the train, Monk said. I must get moving as quickly as possible.
Monk jangled alongside the train as he ran. He carried two assault rifles over his shoulders, each with sixty- round magazines. Konstantin had already given him a lesson on the manual drive mechanism for the train. It wasn't much.
Get in the front cab, shove the lever up.
Reaching the train, Monk trotted along one side, Konstantin along the other.
Everyone off the train! Monk shouted. Out the doors!
Konstantin echoed his orders in Russian.
Still, chaos ruled for a full half minute. Children yelled or cried. Hands grabbed at him, milling and jostling. But the kids were also well trained to follow orders. Slowly the tide shifted, and the children began to drift down the tunnel toward the doors.
No longer crowded underfoot, Monk reached the last car, a covered cab. He leaped through the open door and went to the front end. A small driver's seat was flanked by a green and red stick. Green for go. Red for the brakes. A small dashboard displayed gauges and voltage readings.
Monk did not have time for finesse. He leaned out the window. Konstantin!
The boy's voice echoed to him. Clear! Go!
Good enough.
Monk shoved the green lever forward. Electricity popped, casting a few sparks into the darkness ahead. The train lurched forward, then began to roll off down the tunnel.
Four minutes.
He had to get this train to the other end of the tunnel before the camera system rebooted. It was up to Konstantin to herd the children out of the tunnel and close the blast doors. Monk had instructed the boy how to jam the gears so that the doors would remain closed.
Konstantin also had one other task.
Monk had confiscated a pair of the miners' radios. Once Monk reached the far doors, he would signal Konstantin to open them. If all went according to plan,
Monk would have the advantage of surprise and two fully loaded assault rifles.
While likely a suicide mission, what choice did he have? The children were safe for the moment, but if Operation Saturn succeeded, how many millions more would die? Monk had no choice but to storm the master control station, guns blazing.
Initially, he had considered sabotaging the mine site, but Konstantin had paled at that suggestion. The charges fifty of them were primed with radio detonators.
Even if he could scale the half kilometer of shaft in four minutes to reach them, any mishandling of the explosives risked setting them off.
So the matter was settled.
With a rattle of wheels, the train sailed down the dark tunnel, lit by occasional bare bulbs. The front cab also had a single headlamp, which cast a glow ahead of him. As the train trundled faster and faster, Monk noted kilometer markers on the wall. According to Konstantin, the tunnel ran four kilometers long.
Monk found himself holding his breath, counting off a full minute in his head.
Along the right side, he saw the number 2 stenciled into the wall.
