If the man had survived.
Rozhdestvenskiy looked at Zlovski, noting the man’s chin trembling slightly from the oscillation of the spear point of his little beard. “When will we know, Comrade Professor?”
“Comrade Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy—we—we shall know in a matter of seconds. The cryogenic chambers are designed to stimulate the occupant toward awakening, yet not abruptly. We—we shall know in seconds.”
Rozhdestvenskiy only nodded, turning his attention back to the coffin shaped cryogenic chamber. It was one of the Soviet made chambers, but had been altered to match func-tion for function those twelve chambers of American man-ufacture which had been confiscated from the ruins of the Johnson Space Center along with the ninety-six three litre bottles of the nearly clear green liquid which was the all-important serum. The subject of the cryogenic suspended animation test—Rozhdestvenskiy had memorized the man’s name as a courageous hero of the Soviet Union, whether the man survived or not—had been injected with the correctly calculated amount of the cryogenic serum based upon body weight. The volunteer’s name was Corpo-ral Vassily Gurienko.
“Corporal,” Rozhdestvenskiy called out. “Do you live, Corporal? Vassily?”
Inside the chamber, as the clouds of the blue cryogenic gas dissipated, there was movement.
“It could only be a reaction of the body—an autonomic response, Comrade Colonel,” Zlovski cautioned.
“Vas-sil-y!”
“Comrade Colonel!”
“Vas-sil-y!”
Slowly, the body inside the chamber rose, like a figure in a child’s nightmare sitting up from a coffin, the covering, the lid of the chamber elevating in perfect synchrony with the form inside. Slowly, the torso bent until Corporal Vas-sily Gurienko sat fully erect. The man was naked save for a light blue cloth covering over his legs, this partially dropped away, his private parts unconsciously displayed now.
Rozhdestvenskiy walked toward the cryogenic chamber. “Corporal?”
The occupant of the cryogenic chamber—his lower jaw dropped. “Comrade Colonel—I—what is— I feel —”
Rozhdestvenskiy spoke slowly. “You were born where, Corporal?”
“Minsk—Minsk, Comrade Colonel.”
“Three times nine is how much?”
“Twenty-seven,” the man answered after an instant’s pause.
“What is the mathematical equivalent of pi?”
“Ahh—three point one four one six, Comrade Colonel.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Comrade Colonel—I volunteered to serve the State,
Comrade Colonel—”
“How?”
“To test, Comrade Colonel, to test the cryogenic cham-bers which will carry ourselves of the Committee For State Security Elite Corps and the selected female comrades and the support personnel five hundred years into the future to reawaken—to reawaken and to conquer the planet and to destroy the six returning United States Space Shuttles with our particle beam defense systems before they are able to land, Comrade Colonel, and to—”
“Never mind,” Rozhdestvenskiy whispered. Rozhdestvenskiy took a half step back, bringing his heels together, raising his right hand to his forehead, “I salute you, Com-rade Corporal Gurienko, as a Hero of The Soviet Union.”
Rozhdestvenskiy dropped the salute, turned to look at Professor Zlovski. “Well?”
“I have told you, Comrade Colonel — there is no proper test of so short a duration and —”
“The indications?”
“They are all good, Comrade Colonel—the corporal, he must be subjected to extensive medical tests before we know more and —”
Rozhdestvenskiy made a slicing motion through the air with his right hand, dropping his cigarette to the laboratory floor and heeling it out. He picked up the red telephone on the edge of the nearest lab table. “This is Rozhdestvenskiy. Give me Communications.” He waited, while the connec-tion was made, a ringing sound once, then a voice beginning a formal answering procedure. “Never mind that—this is Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy—send message seventeen. I re-peat, message seventeen. Send continuously until there is response. I am in the Cryogenics Laboratory and shall be returning to my Command Center.” He hung up.
“You are not curious, Comrade Professor?”
“About what, Comrade Colonel?”
Rozhdestvenskiy felt himself smiling. “Message seventeen—what it is?”
“I was not listening, Comrade Colonel— I would not pre-sume—”
“It is a coded signal to the Kremlin Bunker—it is only one word. ‘Come.’ Sometimes,” he nodded, starting to walk away, “one word is all that is needed. I shall wish to peruse the medical findings of the corporal’s condition personally, and have you available to me all the while for consultation. See to it, Zlovski.” Then Rozhdestvenskiy stopped, lighting another cigarette—he would have five centuries to break the habit. “The corporal is to be treated with the dignity which would be accorded a hero of his stature.” And he smiled at the professor. “Comrade Professor Zlovski — thank you very much—a most worthwhile entertainment— most,” and he walked away, listening to the click of the heels of his Italian loafers on the hard laboratory floor.
All but like the gods of Greco-Roman myth, he was im-mortal now.
Chapter Three
John Thomas Rourke slipped the Low Alpine Systems Loco Pack’s straps over his shoulders, watching as Natalia prepared herself—at least physically—for the ordeal which remained ahead of them. The twin stainless L- Frame Meta-life Custom Smiths had never left her throughout the con-ference with her uncle, General Varakov, in the mummy room of the museum by Lake Michigan, nor had the shoul-der holster—he had found out it was a Ken Null SMZ—with the special silencer fitted stainless American Walther PPK/ S. But she was slinging her two M-16s to her body now, as Rourke watched her. And there was Captain Vladov, the Soviet Special Forces Leader. One of his men had brought forth Vladov’s additional gear. Other than the Smith & Wes-son stainless Model 659 9mm he had worn earlier, Vladov now carried a second handgun, identical to the first. Still a third Smith & Wesson 9mm pistol he carried in what ap-peared to be a handmade tanker style holster, this gun the almost black looking 469, called the ‘Mini’ Gun before The Night of The War. The factories which produced American small arms had been occupied and in some cases made to continue production, mostly assembly from existing parts, Natalia had told him.
Rourke turned to the face of the man who had changed his destiny, or perhaps helped him to fulfill it, if indeed there were destiny at all. General Ishmael Varakov, Su-preme Commander North American Army of Occupation of The Soviet.
The general still sat on his backless bench, his secretary Catherine standing beside and behind him, her left hand resting gently on the massive old man’s equally massive left shoulder. The second Soviet Special Forces officer had ar-rived, with his men as well, a Lieutenant Daszrozinski.
General Varakov spoke. “The assault which I propose, Dr. Rourke, is the only means by which the KGB can be pre-vented from fulfilling its goals. But I feel a guilt that I send you all to your deaths despite this knowledge.”
John Rourke checked the Gerber fighting knife he had added to his gear before leaving for Chicago. As he sheathed the black handled MkII, he spoke, “Captain Vla-dov has five men and Lieutenant Daszrozinski has five men—a total of twelve Russians, plus Natalia of course. If there were only thirteen Russians,” he smiled, “an assault on the Womb to recover the cryogenic serum or destroy it and knock out the particle beam weapons there might be doomed to failure, I agree. But I’m an American. That’ll make the difference.” He watched Natalia’s eyes grow wider as he spoke, their incredible, surreal blueness brighter somehow in the contrast of the dim light of the mummy room. “And, if as you proposed, General Varakov, I can get the help of U.S. II in this, well,” and he laughed, “even just two or three more Americans added into—” and he paused, gesturing toward the Soviet SF-ers around him, knowing they were his allies now against the KGB, but finding it still hard to realize fully—”this assault force, well. You know what they always say. One American can lick any couple dozen people from anywhere else in the world. So, a thou-sand of Rozhdestvenskiy’s Elite KGB Corps, the thousand women he has there to perpetuate the
