Winter Hawk

few days, body pressed into the corner of the room. Priabin took him by the shoulders. Kedrov flinched.

He leaned his head toward Kedrov and whispered. 'There has to be a transmitter, doesn't there?' he asked, sensing a great reluctance in himself. Kedrov seemed puzzled only by the fact that he was whispering. He could not risk the guard hearing, but he had to know. 'A secret transmitter to put Lightning into operation. The general can't just press a button in front of everyone in mission control, now can he?' All the while, he was gently shaking Kedrov's shoulders, as if waking — Anna, he thought for a moment, then concentrated on the familiar, gentle tone of voice he felt required to use. 'Some of them know, but not all. It's a secret, after all, so he can't press the button in full view of everyone, can he? People like you who aren't army — see what I mean?' Did it sound feasible now, put into words? Or did it sound ludicrous? Perhaps they all did know. No, his guard didn't seem to, the technicians with whom he had played bridge had always referred to Linchpin, and to the objective as being the placing of the weapon in orbit — oh, yes, they were going to test the weapon, sometime, on a dead satellite, maybe; they hadn't known anything more than that. It would be senior telemetry people, senior staff officers, the crew of the shuttle, Serov, and his second-in-command.

'See what I mean?' he persisted. Twelve twenty-nine. Shake his shoulders, gently, come on, Sleeping Beauty, wake up. Priabin felt sweat gather around his throat, beneath his arms. 'They would have to have a secret transmitter, even a small control room, in order to align the weapon, acquire the target, and fire the laser beam — don't you see, Filip?' Come on, come on, you fucking cretin, understand — say yes, oh, Christ, please say yes. 'See?' he managed to murmur sweetly, stepping back.

Kedrov nodded. His face had been screwed up in concentration. Suddenly, his brow unfurrowed, he looked younger. And he nodded eagerly like an idiot understanding a simple instruction. Thank God! Then he seemed to see Priabin's uniform and become frightened again. Priabin forced himself to smile, and leaned forward, taking his shoulders again, feeling their flinch, then relaxation.

'They'd have to be able to tap into the central control system, use its information for aligning and testing the weapon, and then fire it secretly — or they've got a duplicate of the entire weapon control system, down to tracking radars…?' He could not keep the doubt from his voice. He wasn't telling, after all, he was asking^ Kedrov ought to know if he was on the right track. 'Wouldn't they?'

Again, Kedrov nodded slowly, his face brightening. Christ, am I right or not?

'Look, Filip, help me with this and I'll help you get to the West.

God help me, I'll get you to the West. Understand?' He was shaking the man too vigorously now, but could not prevent himself. The room stifled him. It was going down the drain, he was running out of time, and he had no idea what to look for, where to look, or whether his idea was even feasible. Come on, for Christ's sake, come on. 'Help me?' he pleaded, no longer whispering. 'Help me!'

Hot, tense silence, as if the room were in the tropics, a storm gathering beyond the blinds. He released Kedrov's shoulders. The silence went on, pressing on Priabin. The guard's presence was vivid.

Eventually, Kedrov spoke. Normally, it seemed.

'To the West? To America? All the way to America?' Priabin nodded, stifling the noise and expression of his relief. Trying not to shiver with gratitude. 'How will you do it?' The cunning of a simpleton. Kedrov was detached, half awake. Seemed drugged.

'Of course I'll do it. If we can do this, I can use my authority to get us out by car, train, even airplane, if you want. You'll be coming to Moscow with me. From there, it will be easy. Don't you see how grateful the Americans will be? They'll make you a millionaire!' He slapped Kedrov's upper arms in a pretense of delight. Come on, come on… twelve thirty-two. Fourteen minutes in the room, and they hadn't come with lunch for Kedrov and the guard, they could be here at any moment — calm down. Oh, Christ, Kedrov, you fell for the line about America once, do it again.

'A millionaire?'

'If you save their shuttle, yes.'

'And you could—?'

'I can.'

Strained silence. Priabin listened behind him, to the corridor beyond the door. Nothing. Come on…

'All right, all right, Colonel — I'll come.' He had looked at the guard just before he spoke. It must have been the contemptuous hatred in his eyes. Kedrov had shuddered. The guard had pulled down the last remnants of the illusory world of this safe room. 'Yes, yes,' he continued. 'We must hurry.'

'Put on this uniform — quickly, Filip.' Priabin said, moving at once to the door, the rifle now in his hands, snatched up from the top of a low table. 'Put on the uniform and let's get out of here.'

He moved slowly toward the light. It had been coming up through the crack, through other crevices in the rock. Its source was in this cave. He listened through the blood drumming in his ears. Ropes hissed as they uncoiled, radios crackled; all noise was magnified. He looked behind him, but the darkness was still intact back there. He kept to the wall of the ca e, stepping with infinite stealth and care, to avoid being outlined by the light, which now seemed to be slipping toward him from beyond a bend. His breath was visible now, as well as being audible to him.

A shadowy curtain. Just twenty or thirty yards from him — what? The light was diffuse, almost greenish. Puzzling. As he reached it, he removed his glove and touched the wall of dull, solid light. Ice!

It was the stream issuing from above him, masking this opening. A frozen waterfall.

Bullets plucked and stung at the ice near him. He jerked his hand back and turned. The flashes from invisible muzzles were forty or fifty yards behind him He crouched back against the rock, his head turned toward the ice—

— where a shadow dangled and shifted beyond the waterfall, and something banged against the ice as if knocking at a door. He switched the^ Kalashnikov to automatic. Light was leaking more strongly around the edges of the waterfall as if it were no more than a curtain hurriedly drawn across this gap to the outside world. He aimed, then squeezed the trigger, flinching against the thought of ricochets.

The waterfall starred and crazed like a windshield in a highspeed accident. The steel-cored bullets penetrated the ice just where the shadow dangled. At once it became a different outline, somehow heavier and inanimate. Fire increased behind him in response to his own shooting, bullets winging away or lodging in the shattered waterfall. He edged onto the ledge at the side of the ice, its scarred, green surface only inches from his face. Pressing his back against comforting rock, he inched along the ledge, into—

— sunlight hurting his eyes, almost blinding him. Into a plucking wind, rattling the parka and seeking to dislodge him. The shadow he had seen through the waterfall was as diffuse as before, as he tried to focus his wet eyes. The shadow took on substance. Hanging from a nylon rope. Foot and handholds kept the body upright, almost alert. The camouflage jacket was torn by bullets and was wet with melting ice chips and blood.

There was more firing behind him. He looked up. The rope came down from a clifftop perhaps fifty feet above him. It might only be a ledge or outcrop, or the slope of the mountainside. He had been descending steadily. The mountain may have sloped like a roof, following that descent. The rope trailed away down into a canyon. A river rushed past the point where the frozen stream ended. There was a single railway line, and a railway tunnel. Between the track and the river was a broad, four-lane highway. The canyon wound downward toward the plain of Ararat, toward, toward—

A railway junction. The one he had seen through the glasses. The river below met the Araks there. It was the road junction too. A military highway, for certain, wide enough for tank transporters and the heaviest army vehicles. It was the border. Perhaps two or three miles away. Say two…

Safety. He glanced up. Where was the rest of this spetsnaz trooper's unit? What of those behind him? There must be at least three of them still alive, hurrying now toward the waterfall and the cave mouth, knowing he had made an exit that they could still prevent from becoming an escape.

It was automatic, almost. A reflex. He used the folding stock of the Kalashnikov like a hook, catching the rope that dangled freely beneath the body. Pulling it toward him. Touching it with his gloved fingers. The sunlight seemed paler now, his eyes could cope. He gripped the rope. Glanced down, then at the waterfall's close edge. Then tugged on the rope. The body twitched, but the rope was firm. He held it in both hands, after slinging the rifle across his back, and jumped.

His feet came back with a hollow boom against the waterfall like a signal to those inside. He was now the shadow, the easy target.

He abseiled. Hands burning, legs ricocheting like falling sticks off the rocks, off the frozen water, off ledges