Across the runway two Swatters were detaching from rails on opposite sides of the Hind. One left on a plume of fire, soaring from the wing toward Remo and Chiun. The second was stopped in midlaunch by Chiun's metal fragment.
The blade impacted with the nose of the rocket before it cleared the pylon. The ensuing explosion ripped the pylon, flinging it up into the swirling rotors even as the flames from the blast were engulfing the Hind. The gunship burst apart like shattered glass.
Remo and Chiun weren't there to witness the blast. As the second loosed missile screamed across the runway, the two Masters of Sinanju were running fullout away from its path. By the time it struck the hangar where they'd been standing, they were half a mile away and still going.
Only when the flames and the heat had subsided did the two of them double back.
They found the hangar in ruins. Fire licked the two walls that were still upright. Charred bodies of the Russian soldiers they'd herded inside were scattered all around.
"This has gotta be against the Geneva Convention," Remo said as he eyed the bodies.
Chiun surveyed the damage, his expression bland. "They tried to get Master Hwa to sign that silly white agreement. He chained their emissaries to the Horns of Welcome and let the seagulls feast on their carcasses."
Turning on his heel, he marched off through the smoke.
Remo's eye strayed from the old man's retreating back. With a thoughtful frown he watched the sallow sky in the direction Anna had flown.
He finally turned away. Face grim, he trailed the Master of Sinanju across the battle-scarred runway.
Chapter 30
Word of what was happening in Alaska had seeped into the outside world. In Russia many greeted the news of the takeover of Fairbanks with nationalistic optimism. For the first time in years, some saw hope for a nation in despair to recapture the pride of days long past. Men and women who ten years before had demonstrated in the hope of what free elections would bring, only to be held captive by poverty and corruption at the highest levels of government, had begun to take to the streets. It was beginning to look like-19I7 all over again. And with a new threat from Vladimir Zhirinsky to address the nation on a pirate radio frequency, civilian and military authorities had been placed on high alert.
Director Pavel Zatsyrko of the SVR had been summoned to the Kremlin before events had become known to the greater Russian populace. For the past two days of the escalating crisis, he had been directing the operations of his agency from the Grand Palace itself. He was reviewing the latest data on leaders of the hard-line movement currently residing in Moscow when the door of his temporary office burst open.
A deputy raced in without knocking, his youthful face pale. "He is on the phone!" the young man blurted.
When he saw that the agent wasn't carrying a gun, the SVR leader hid his great relief. With the gangs now marauding through Moscow's streets, he had feared that the rebels had pierced the defenses of the Kremlin itself.
"You are to knock before you enter this room," Zatsyrko said with forced bluster.
"But he is on the phone now," the young man cried, breathless. "He called the switchboard. He wishes to speak with the president."
"Who is on the phone?" Pavel Zatsyrko asked unhappily.
When he learned who it was that had made his young deputy risk his career by abandoning agency protocol, all color drained from the face of the SVR director.
Barking an order to wait five minutes before putting the caller through on the special line, Zatsyrko raced from the room. He flew through the corridors of the Kremlin. Veering from the main polished floors, he ran into an unused wing off one of the less ostentatious buildings. In a dusty corridor well off the beaten path, he exploded into a small room.
The president of Russia sat at a tiny table in a cramped kitchen. Four men sat on a bench across the room. When Zatsyrko flew into the room, they looked up in unison.
The furnishings in the room were almost a century old. The only sop to the times were a banker's lamp that sat in the middle of the table and a clumsy yellow telephone that rested at the president's elbow.
The phone had just begun to ring as Zatsyrko burst into the room. "It is him!" he panted. Wheezing to catch his breath, he stabbed a finger at the phone. "Zhirinsky."
The president had been reaching for the ringing phone. When he learned who was on the other end of the line, he hesitated. His small hand hovered an inch above the phone for a moment before he gained the courage to lift the receiver to his ear.
"Zhirinsky, what is this madness?" the president of Russia demanded without preamble.
"Oh, you are there," Vladimir Zhirinsky said with bland surprise. "I assumed when you took so long to answer that you had fled Russia. I should have known. After all, you are the fool who not only publicly arrests those who should be shipped in silence to gulags, but you also remain on vacation as submarines full of sailors suffocate on the ocean floor. I gave you credit for having too much sense."
"Sense?" the president blurted. "Zhirinsky, you are a menace. I will see to it that you are forced to live on rats and muddy water in the deepest, dankest cell in Lubyanka Prison for the rest of your lunatic life."
"I do not think so," Zhirinsky said with oily superiority. "Do you think I don't know what is happening in Mother Russia? The match is lit. The people have heard the cry of revolution and have taken to the streets. Moscow is mine, and you do not even know it. You are a prisoner in your own palace, Mr. President." The words dripped contempt. "When I make my address at midnight tonight, the days of lapping the boots of the capitalists will be over."
The president's grip tightened on the phone.
It was true after all. He had hoped that the rumor was false. The crazy man Zhirinsky intended to address the Russian population. And with the current national mood, the madman could actually become a figure of revolution.
The great purges under Stalin and Lenin, the nightmares of the gulags, the persecution of any dissenting thought, the decades of the evil terror of the KGB-all would be as nothing compared to what would become of Russia if Vladimir Zhirinsky were to take the reins of power.
"I will stop you," the president vowed darkly.
"You cannot," Zhirinsky replied. "You have not the capability to disrupt my signal. If you were a wise man, you would land a helicopter within the Kremlin's walls and fly out this evening. You have been a dutiful lapdog. The Americans would no doubt let you hide behind their skirts."
"I have spoken to their President," the Russian leader said. "I have offered military assistance to remove you."
He could almost see the smile bloom beneath Zhirinsky's bushy mustache.
"Send your soldiers. When was the last time any of them were paid? Every true Russian will turn to my cause. Not only that, but you know it to be true, for I smell your fear. If I were you, I would begin packing. And if you are still there when I arrive in Moscow in triumph..."
There came a delighted sound of clicking teeth on the other end of the line. With that, the phone went dead in the president's ear.
With wooden movements he replaced the big yellow receiver. His fingers felt fat and clumsy.
Pavel Zatsyrko still stood near the plain wooden door, an anxious expression on his face.
"Is it true?" the SVR man asked the president. "Did you offer troops to the American President?" At his wobbly table, the president looked up. Dark bags rimmed his pale eyes.
"He refused," he said. "According to him, they have their best already in Alaska." The Russian glanced back at the four men seated against the wall. "But I do not see how two men could go up against an army," he muttered under his breath.
"Only two men?" Zatsyrko asked, amazed.