Would it be day or night up top? Was he in the Eastern, Central, Mountain, or Pacific time zone? Soon he would know. He had set the final patch in the series he had set a month earlier. Now the hatches could be opened and closed without detection. The last hatch, the only one that could not be opened manually from the outside, he would leave open until he returned. The only way he could be discovered was if the shaft came out in the middle of a city — not very likely — or if there was an attack while he was outside. And if that happened, who would care that he had come out. He would simply die like the other poor souls above.
He set his watch alarm for four hours. He had decided to limit his stay to four hours in order to avoid detection. But surely in that time he would be able to gather clues of his location. He put on the parka and began the climb up the ladder. If it was warm above he would simply leave the parka behind near the top hatch.
It was night. The stars were visible from horizon to horizon. No mountains, no cities, no trees, the terrain flat. He recognized several constellations, but without knowing the time of day he could not position himself east or west. He was north, though. The temperature — about zero, he guessed — the fact that it was winter, and the positions of the stars told him north. Perhaps near the Canadian border, perhaps even in Alaska. He had not studied astronomy sufficiently to know exactly. If he had known he was to come out on a clear night he would certainly have done so.
As his eyes became accustomed to the faint starlight, he saw a line running at an angle not too distant. He set his compass and walked toward it across a lumpy farm field — plowed for winter? Soon he was walking on gravel. He reset his compass, marked his entry onto the road by piling clods of dirt in the form of an X, and set off to the southwest.
Soon there was a light, then another. A town. He lit his watch face, only forty-five minutes had passed. Soon he would know. He would see a name on a sign. He imagined himself back in his quarters looking up the town on a map. Though the air was crisp and fresh compared to the stale air of Silo 414 he did not care. His desire was simply to find out where he was and get back undetected. He was a boy again, a boy at his computer logged onto a network where he did not belong. A game of hide-and-seek, his chest feeling light, his head floating in excitement and anticipation. The lights of the town getting closer and closer, roofs visible now against the sky, steep, sloped roofs with rounded edges. A make-believe village, a fantasy land.
“Astanavlivat!”
Astanavlivat? He stopped. A man came from the darkness to his right. The man was outlined against the lights of the town. A large-headed man. No, a hat, a fur hat. And a long coat. And, flashing in starlight, a rifle pointed at him. The man moved behind him, nudged him forward toward the town. Within a few steps another man with a rifle joined them and the two began speaking in Russian.
He was blindfolded and his hands were bound behind with icy handcuffs. He was led toward the town. He could tell by the sounds of dogs barking and an occasional car. A truck came from the town and he was put inside. As the truck bumped and lurched on the road he wondered if the Russians were simply a small force or part of some major invasion. He must be in Alaska, perhaps near the sea where these Russians had landed. He may have given away the site of Silo 414 but, if he could get away, he might be a hero. He might be the one who warned of the Russians on American soil. He pulled at the handcuffs and was promptly poked in the ribs.
He was taken into a building, guards at both sides holding him, one behind poking him in the back with a rifle, one in front giving orders. No chance to escape. Not yet. Not until he knew his options, or knew where he was.
His blindfold was removed. He was in a room with bare, whitewashed walls. He sat on a bench before an unpainted wooden table. Whoever had removed the blindfold was unlocking the handcuffs. He looked from side to side and saw no one else, only a closed wood door to his right. Then the man stepped from behind him, put the handcuffs on the table, and sat across from him.
The man was in his fifties, round-faced, greying hair matted down where a hat had been. The man could be Russian but since he wore an overcoat over a plain grey business suit he could not tell. The man’s cheeks were rosy. Too much vodka or just the cold outside? The man stared at him, blinking. His eyes were blue.
“So,” said the man. “Let’s get on with it.” The man spoke without an accent. If anything he sounded like a midwesterner.
“Because of your training I know better than to ask questions. So I’ll do the talking, Major Donovan. You know, of course, that you won’t be returning to 414. The other two have already been notified of your absence and we’ll have a replacement in there shortly. My name is Bernstein, by the way. I’m with the State Department.”
Bernstein stood, removed his overcoat and laid it on the far end of the table. Then he sat back down. “Warm in here.”
He stared at Bernstein. Bernstein the Russian? KGB?
“Major, you’ve caused a serious breach in security. At the moment I’m not interested in your reason for leaving the installation. What I am interested in is getting your full cooperation so that we can successfully seal the security breach. I’ll get right to the point, major. Silo 414 is in the Soviet Union, several hundred miles northeast of Moscow. The name of the small village you were walking toward is unimportant. In fact, the less you know beyond what I’ve already said will make your debriefing a lot easier.”
He imagined a map of Russia, could remember only the rough positions of Leningrad and Moscow and Gorky. He laughed. Russia indeed. He watched Bernstein’s face for a reaction, but Bernstein simply stared.
“The humor of the situation will pass quickly, major. The Russian soldiers who found you now know that Americans are manning 414 and that will have to be dealt with.” Bernstein took a notebook from his pocket and flipped through it as he spoke. “Your attempted bypass of the egress alarm system was detected last month, but we could not put guards out there to wait for your possible attempted escape without arousing suspicions. And we thought that perhaps you had bypassed the circuits simply to satisfy your psychological tendencies. We know much about you, major. More than you think.”
Bernstein put the notebook away. “You’ll be put back into suspended animation and shipped back in a capsule for debriefing. Punishment for disobeying orders would be pointless, since you’ll never serve in a missile installation again. Any questions?”
Bernstein appeared ready to leave, his hands braced on the edge of the table.
“Wait. Of course I have questions. I don’t know if you’re a Russian or an American or what, but I’ll ask anyway.”
“Go ahead, major.”
“Are you trying to tell me that Americans are manning Russian missiles?”
“Yes.”
“And just where are those missiles aimed?”
“Why, at the U.S., of course.”
“Who knows about this?”
“Very few. Only the highest authorities, and of course the computers know.”
“But what about the capsules? What about the packaging and shipping?”
“The computers print out labels and shipping instructions for a series of crates. You came over by ship.”
“And I suppose you’re going to tell me that Russians are manning American missiles.”
“Is that what you want me to tell you?”
He slammed his fist on the table. Bernstein blinked, stared at his fist.
“No need to get violent, major. My job here isn’t to give you the facts. I’m just doing my job. And I’m also giving you the courtesy of asking some questions before you’re put under.”