Winter Hawk

blackness of the chemical tank in the Antonov's cabin. Dry, clean, no residual scent of the crop-dusting chemicals they had used the previous season. He nodded vigorously. It would work, just so long as he could fuel up the airplane. It would work, he reiterated to convince himself. The chemical tank had about a three hundred-gallon capacity; greater than the Antonov's upper-wing fuel tanks. He assessed the aircraft's range at perhaps as much as five hundred miles. With the chemical tank filled with aviation fuel, he would more than double that range.

Eleven hundred miles. Pakistan or Turkey. Across the border. His chest was tight with excitement as he once more recited the figures. His body felt warmed by self-satisfaction.

The wing tanks were full. All he required was to find the fuel store. It must be outside the hangar. He hadn't seen it on his approach. It had to be behind the hangar, out in the dark where the dirt runway undoubtedly was. His imagination reached out, and faltered. He couldn't get the airplane out of the hangar unless he started up the engine. That noise might bring—

— and he wouldn't have time to fuel up the chemical tank if he aroused interest.

He stood up in a crouch and climbed out of the cabin, the lead for the lamp dropping noisily onto the concrete as he jumped down. He couldn't check the flaps because they operated electrically. He'd checked everything that worked by cable, mechanically — the rudder, the ailerons, the flying controls. Checked the oil levels, the maps in the cockpit. Sat in the pilot's seat, sensing the separate, familiar life of the Antonov; sensing, too, its resemblance to that nrst crop duster. Familiarity had been a small victory. He had jettisoned as much from the cabin as he could — most of the cabin lining, stowed equipment, the noise-reducing plywood of the fuselage walls. He had checked each of the repair cards. The Antonov would fly, but only for five hundred miles until he found extra fuel. Half the way home.

… like repairing a bicycle, kid.

The memory made him grin involuntarily. He'd said that twenty-five years ago as he let Gant help him service the crop duster, after their first flight together. Gant had checked the pressure in the Antonov's tires and remembered the words. Like repairing a bicycle, kid.

He switched off the lamp, and crossed the now-familiar hangar in pale moonlight. He opened the judas door and stepped through it. He shivered in the icy cold, came more awake. He hunched into the folds of the parka, its hood dragged over his head, and rounded the side of the hangar. The wind howled in pursuit. He ran.

The battery needed perhaps two, three more hours to be fully charged. He could not cut it finer, dare not. If he drained the battery trying to start the engine, he was lost. Fuel was the necessity.

Wire, a small compound, tarpaulin. He sucked in air greedily, his teeth set in what might have been a grin. He rattled the lock. He needed something to cut the chain or snap the lock — have to go back. He bent down and studied the anonymous, heaped shape that was the outline of the tarpaulin. It was loosely fixed, great gusts of wind rippling it like the back of an aggressive animal. Flaps of it flew and cracked. He waited, the tension coming back into his frame. turbine fuel… He held his breath and waited for the wind to reveal the drum once more, reveal the stenciled Cyrillic lettering stamped on it. Eventually, turbine fuel appeared. By the size of the tarpaulin, there had to be in the region of thirty drums beneath its cover. He rose and looked at the wire fence. Pointless to climb, he had to open the gates. Smash the lock. The thought of the small violence satisfied him.

He had found the fuel he needed. If he employed the pump on the chemical tank to feed the fuel via a hose to the wing tanks, the whole jury-rig would work; it would work. He turned away from the rattling tarpaulin toward the hangar. Twelve-ten. By four, then, with luck…

He listened intently, saliva filling his mouth. He wasn't mis* taken. He knew the wind was carrying the noise of an approaching engine. He cocked his head to one side. Small vehicle by the noise-Coming closer. He ran scuttling toward the side of the hangar. As the moon slid behind a great billow of cloud, he saw headlights bouncing crazily as the vehicle followed the undulating dirt track from the collective. Light splashed on the firs, on the hangar. He crouched in the shadows.

The engine noise died. He heard the brake cranking on. Heard voices, two of them, even one man's luxurious yawn, the others comment on the chill of the night. One of the men rattled the doors of the hangar, the others voice disappeared into a muffled distance — Christ, as if he were going to walk right around the hangar! The rifle was in the hangar — Gant grabbed at his pockets frantically. Found the Makarov pistol he'd snatched up in the MiL's cabin, eased a round into the chamber, holding his breath at the magnified noise of the action. Christ—

… aircraft in here?' he heard.

'So those lazy bastards said. Why the hell didn't they tell us that in the first place?'

'Got the keys?' The walking man had returned to his companion. The barrel of the Makarov was icy against Gant's cheek. He pressed farther into the shadows, his gaze intent upon the corner of the hangar.

'Let's have a look-see, then.'

The small, metallic noises of unlocking the padlock on the main doors, the creak of wood, the grunt of a man straining against the wind with the great sailplane of one of the doors.

'Fucking little door was open all the time!' one of them exclaimed.

Gant heard the large door slam back into place, shuddering as it did so, banging again and again in the wind. He strained to listen, ear against the wall, but only muffled exclamations reached him from inside the hangar. If they found — if they guessed—

Light sprang from the window above his head, making him flinch. Wildly, he looked around. An empty oil drum lying on its side in the straggling grass. He stepped out of the shadows, pocketing the gun. Dragged the drum, which whispered hollowly as he touched it, directly under the window. Climbed onto it, taking the gun once more from his pocket, slipping off the safety catch. He looked down into the hangar.

And flinched back instantly as one of the uniformed men turned his direction. Waited, not breathing, then raised his head cautiously. They were looking at the Antonov. One of them was pointing at the litter of material he had removed from the cabin. Tossing his head in amused puzzlement, tapping one finger to his forehead. Two GRU uniforms, perhaps even the two he had failed to kill earlier on the embankment. Returning in the long swing of their patrol to the collective, learning this time of the hangar, its two aircraft— reassured they wouldn't fly?

He watched one of the two, a corporal, move toward the door, then through it. The remaining soldier had lit a cigarette, taken a flask from the pocket of his parka. He swigged violently, wiped his chin, licked the back of his hand. Gant stepped down from the oil drum, crept cautiously along the side of the hangar. Returning moonlight searched him out. The wind slapped his parka's skirts against the building's wall, and he grabbed the garment closer around him. Paused at the corner.

Listened.

… say neither of them's capable of flying… bits missing, sir. I don't know what bits, sir. Sorry, sir…..' The man's words were interrupted or accompanied by a tinny squeak from the UAZ's radio. The corporal was standing by the vehicle, leaning against the door, microphone in his hand, the other hand scratching his cheek. 'That's what he said, sir, the collective's engineer. Neither of them can fly. What, sir? OK, until further orders, yes, sir. Over and out.' He threw the microphone into the cab of the UAZ. Gant darted back into the shadows of the hangar. His whole chest and stomach seemed empty as he heard the corporal call out: 'Ivan. Officer says we're to stay here until further orders. Have a break, he says, but stay sharp. Suits me.'

Until further orders.

Gant was trapped, separated from the Antonov, unless he killed both of them. And if he did that, he'd raise the alarm for certain. As soon as they failed to call in — every hour, half hour, every fifteen minutes? — the gunships would come looking for him, certain of his whereabouts. He couldn't kill them. He couldn't do anything.

'We are at T minus three hours, final countdown continues.'

Wild cheering, as if the words had released tensions in a great wave that rushed through mission control. Priabin felt battered by its strength. On screen after screen, in front of him and to each side, the shuttle stood atop its massive booster stages. The last of the liquid oxygen fumed away from the flanks of the vast machine, the skeletal gantry threw its shadows down the checkerboard pattern on the missile's side. The cheering went on, deafening and exaggerated. Even the guard at his side had a wide grin on his face, as he puffed at his cigarette. Priabin ignored the cigarette the guard had given him. On the huge fiber-optic map twenty feet away, the undulating course of the American shuttle Atlantis across the planet looked like the measurement of a regular sine wave.

Rodin's voice was amplified and mechanical over the PA, but still betrayed the man's excitement as it reached every part of the room.