Winter Hawk

and the garage owner were gabbing rapidly in Uzbek, their words still carrying the strong accent of hatred.

Pig, pig, Russian pig…

The words became a remembered litany in his head. He had heard them often, through the thin, cracked- plaster wall as he lay next to his sisters cot. Only understanding years later what it must have been that his mother was refusing his drunken, demanding father. He shook his head. Adamov seemed confused.

'Where was this little problem?' Gant asked.

'Oh, barracks outside Khiva. Low-grade conscripts. They had some of their officers tied up — full of hashish and threats, the whole lot of them.' He grinned. 'Making demands — you know them. Cut the balls off one poor sod and shoved them down his throat.' He sighed theatrically. 'Not a lot of resistance, once we'd explained the position to them and the hashish wore off'

'How come you're here now? Must have been a big operation?' Gant shrugged as convincingly as the cold would allow.

'What do you mean?' Adamov protested, as if he suspected the presence of another policeman.

Gant understood. Adamov had been due some leave, had perhaps wangled or forged the papers granting him a few days off in

Samarkand before he reported back to headquarters. His presence there was a weakness, but the man was still dangerous.

Degree of cover, training prompted him. Imagine you're standing there naked, reddening with embarrassment until you can put on some clothes. What can you add to your cover? Remember background, experience, training, anecdote, expertise, rank. Convince them you are who you say you are.

Afghanistan — you're just back from there, Gant instructed himself, and find that Adamov is fighting the good fight right here— Uzbek pigs.

'OK, coffee it is,' Gant said. 'Borzov, by the way,' he added, remembering his cover name easily now. Adamov nodded, relaxed by the identity he felt was emerging.

'Good, good.' Adamovs hand came back to Gant's shoulder. They moved together toward the low house, bending slightly into the increasing wind. Which nagged at Gant's awareness. His mind estimated the wind speed, considered takeoff, flying.

Twelve-twenty, he saw, glancing surreptitiously at his watch. Time wasting. Cover story.

'Cleared your desk early, mm?' he asked with assumed heartiness.

Adamov glanced at him with renewed suspicion, then relaxed.

'Just so, man. Cleared my desk early.' He pointed an index finger, then curled it shut in a squeezing gesture. Hero of the slaughter. He laughed. 'I like it. Cleared my desk early.' His laughter was snatched away by the wind after it had buffeted Gant.

Adamov had enjoyed the killing — perhaps he had even been given his early leave for services rendered? Gant shivered. Adamov said abruptly: 'I recognize the unit badges on the MiL, the IDs. Alma-Atas your home base, then?' He hardly paused before he added: 'Then you must know old Georgi Karpov? He must have keen posted to Kabul the same time as you were — same flight, or squadron, or whatever you call it in the FAAs. How is he, old Georgi, mm?'

Adamov had paused on the step up to the wooden porch of the bungalow. Dust flew around them. The captain's eyes were bright, as bright as the full moon. Only one thought took precedence in Want's mind.

Who was Georgi Karpov?

* * *

The laser battle station, ostensibly the first component of Linchpin, in reality the very heart of Lightning, had been transferred to the main assembly building still in its component parts. The main mirror, the laser tube, the power source — each provided General Lieutenant Pyotr Rodin with a hard, diamondlike satisfaction. Each component was as evocative as memories of the ranks he had held, the promotions he had received during his years of service.

That very evening, shaving for a second time in order to appear at his most groomed here and now, he had watched his worried face in the mirror and wondered how people viewed his only son. Did they see, as vividly as he did, the weak chin, the full, loose lips, the pale, delicate skin? Did they see his wife, as he did?

No, of course not, he had reasoned; reasoned again now. They could not because they had never seen his wife. Not out here, not in Baikonur. Very few of the high command had met that quiet, mousy woman who hardly left fingerprints, never mind made an impression on anyone's memory.

And who had ruined his only son.

Dismiss—

Staring at the components of the laser weapon, he watched his son's image whirl away into the darkness in his head.

The following night the laser weapon would be lowered into the gaping cargo bay of the shuttle craft, the doors would close on it, the shuttle craft would be drawn out of the building on its short journey to join the booster stages at the launch site. There was nothing else. His son did not concern him — did not deserve his attention at this time.

Even the presence of Serov could not dim the moment, tarnish the hard glint of his pleasure. The GRU commandant was to his right, while to his left an army technician stood beside a television set mounted on a wheeled trolley. Its power lead trailed away through the small knot of aides and scientific staff and out of sight. On the television's screen, the earth glowed blue and white and green, hanging in the blackness of space. Africa lay green and brown beneath his glance.

Then the picture switched to another camera's view. The hold of the American shuttle craft, Atlantis. The picture seemed almost in black and white. In the center, two astronauts in pressure suits were working on a satellite they had rescued. They were attached to the hold by twining, snakelike cords. Rodin's fingers plucked at his lower lip. His gaze was intent, as if he were deciphering some complex puzzle. It was, however, anticipatory pleasure he experienced, not doubt or confusion.

In less than thirty-six hours' time, the Soviet shuttle would be launched into low earth orbit. Nothing could go wrong here, not with their schedule. Nothing must go wrong…

The express hoist at the launch pad needed repair. It would be used to place the shuttle craft atop the G- type booster, and now it had developed a hydraulic failure. It must be repaired. At once.

'Thirty-five hours, comrades,' Rodin announced to their immediate attention. He disliked the word 'comrades' — a Party word, not a military one; 'gentlemen' would have fitted more easily. His eyes scanned them like some surveillance camera as his head turned once more to take in the details of the shuttle, which lay open like a gutted fish, beached on its massive transporter. The railway lines ran the length of the huge building and out into the arc- lit night. 'Thirty-five hours.' Power flowed like adrenaline. 'The hoist is to be repaired before this craft moves from here. You have assured me it will be done.'

White-coated civilians nodded, murmured again. Military aides confirmed with nodding heads, with shoulder boards and uniforms and medal ribbons. Rodin was satisfied, even though his gloved fingertips prickled with impatience. He nodded by way of reply 'Good.'

He turned to Serov. His son whirled back out of the darkness in his head. Why did he feel any necessity to explain to Serov? Why, why was he afraid of the man?

Because Serov had the kind of mind, stark and untroubled in its ruthless clarity, that might reach toward the final cleanness of an accident to Valery similar to that prescribed for his actor friend— and Rodin could not contemplate that thought. Guilt sprang unfamiliarly, and he hated the weakness and fear it aroused in him. He Would carry out his plan and get the boy away from Baikonur, away from Serov, back to Moscow and the academy — where he could begin to call upon favors and discretion. The boy could even stay with his mother.

He cleared his throat and said to Serov in a hard, quiet tone: Stavka requires assurances, Serov, concerning your missing technician. They've been in touch with me and specifically mentioned the Matter of security. You understand?'

Serov's face darkened at Rodin's challenging tone, but he merely said: 'In two hours, comrade General, I shall be able to brief you on every aspect of security surrounding the — project. My people are updating everything at this moment.'

'Good.' Rodin smiled slightly at Serov's tight-lipped acquiescence.