Most of the pack was filled with solid chunks of something heavy. Schaefer pulled out a few and inspected them, then poked at the gadgets underneath.
”C-4,” Schaefer said. “Demolitions grade. And detonators, timers, impact fuses… we’ve got a whole wrecking crew here. Tasty stuff.”
”Useful against that?” Ligacheva said, pointing at the alien ship.
”If it were detonated in the right place, yes,” Schaefer said thoughtfully. “At least, if their vehicles are anything like ours, and not completely invulnerable.” He reached into the pack again and brought out several ammo clips. He hefted them, feeling their weight, and read the label on one.
”Teflon-coated,” he said. “Depleted uranium shells, magnum charge. These things ought to punch through steel plate as if it were cheese.” He fitted one magazine to the AK-47. “And interchangeable,” he said. “Smithers and Lynch and the rest may be a bunch of assholes, but the general’s tech boys think of everything.”
”The Kalashnikov Design Bureau, you mean,” Ligacheva said. “The AK-47 was designed to accept almost any standard light round.”
”These things may be small caliber, but they aren’t light,” Schaefer said. “We’ll let everyone share the credit, shall we?” He turned the pack over to be sure he hadn’t missed anything, then looked at the booty he had, spread on the rock. “Now, what can we do with it all?”
Ligacheva looked around.
”The permafrost is melting,” she said. “That’s what holds this place together-the ice. If you planted some of your explosives in the canyon wall, you might be able to bring the whole thing down on top of them.”
Schaefer looked up and around at the rocks. He stuffed the explosives back into the pack, slipped the AK-47 onto his shoulder, then stepped back up on the boulder overlooking the downed ship.
Ligacheva stepped up beside him.
”You think the rocks are…” Schaefer began, leaning forward for a better view.
He didn’t finish the sentence. The boulder abruptly gave way beneath them.
Together, man, woman, and rock tumbled down the side of the pit and slammed heavily onto the top of the spaceship, landing with a resounding crash. A full-blown avalanche followed them immediately, showering stone and debris onto the hot surface of the ship.
Schaefer landed flat on his back, then slowly sat up. His plastic jumpsuit pulled away from the hot metal only reluctantly, leaving an oval of sizzling goo-the outer layer of the plastic had melted away.
Ligacheva had landed on her side and had climbed quickly back atop the fallen boulder, burning the palm of one hand in the process and scorching a long streak of black onto her overcoat. The ship was hot.
Schaefer joined her atop the rock. before the rest of his suit could melt away, and the two of them crouched there, staring at the opening into the ship’s interior, scarcely a dozen meters away.
”Do you think anyone heard that?” Ligacheva asked.
”You could have been front row center at a Who concert and heard that,” Schaefer said. “If there’s anyone still aboard, let’s just hope they’re too damn busy with repairing everything that’s busted in there to come check out another rockslide.” He pointed at a few scattered rocks that had apparently fallen onto the ship earlier as the ice had melted. Then he hefted the pack that he had somehow managed to hang on to and scanned the sides of the ravine.
He didn’t see any suspicious shimmer, but that didn’t mean much-it was dark up there.
It was light inside the ship, though-the red glow was almost alluring from this angle. And if that one he had spotted was the only one left, if there had only been two aboard this ship, then right now the ship was deserted.
Even if there were others aboard, they might be too busy with repairs to notice intruders. They certainly wouldn’t expect intruders-walking straight into the enemy’s home would surely seem insane to them.
Hell, it probably was insane, but that didn’t bother Schaefer at all.
”As long as we’re on their front porch,” he said, “let’s drop in.”
Ligacheva turned to stare at him. Schaefer hefted the pack full of
C-4.
”And while we’re in there,” he said, “we’ll give them a little something to remember us by.”
Chapter 29
He must be here someplace,” Kurkin said as he peered down an empty corridor, his AK-47 at the ready. His breath formed a thick cloud in the cold air, and he suppressed a shiver. “He wasn’t with the others, and we didn’t find any tacks in the snow…”
”This is mad,” Afanasiev said as he swung his own weapon about warily. “He could be anywhere in the entire complex! How can so few of us hope to search it all without letting him slip past us? Especially when one of us must guard the other Americans!”
”And what would you have us do instead?” Kurkin asked sarcastically.
”Let him go!” Afanasiev said. “He is only one old man, what can he do?”
”One man with a weapon can do quite enough…” Kurkin began. Then he stopped. “Listen!” he whispered.
Afanasiev stopped and listened. “Voices,” he said. “But… do I hear two voices?”
”The radio room,” Kurkin said. “He’s in the radio room, and he has contacted his people, perhaps with his own satellite link, perhaps with our equipment. That’s the other voice you hear.”
Afanasiev frowned thoughtfully. “That room has only one door, yes?”
Kurkin nodded.
”We have him trapped, then.”
”Let us take no chances,” Kurkin said. “I have had enough of these damned Americans and their tricks. I say we go in shooting.”
Afanasiev considered that, then nodded. “I have no objection,” he said.
”On my signal, then.”
Together they crept up toward the radio-room door, AK-47s at the ready. The voice from the radio grew louder as they approached.
”… read you, Cold War One, and acknowledge your situation. We reiterate, new orders per Cencom, the mission has been scrubbed, repeat, scrubbed. Over.”
Kurkin’s rusty schoolbook English wasn’t enough to make sense of any of that he could only pick out about one word in three with any certainty.
He hoped that whatever the voice was saying wasn’t of any real importance to anyone.
The radio voice stopped, and the trapped American didn’t reply-he was undoubtedly, Kurkin thought, considering his answer.
The silence was unacceptable, though if they waited, the American might hear their breath or the rustle of clothing. Kurkin waved.
The two of them swung around the door frame, weapons firing in short bursts as they had been taught. A dozen slugs smacked the concrete walls, sending chips and dust flying in all directions.
Then they stopped shooting as they both realized they had no target. The radio room was empty. The radio was on, and a metal case stood open on a table with wires and a small dish antenna projecting from it-the American’s satellite uplink, obviously.
The American wasn’t there.
”Where is he?” Afanasiev asked, baffled. He stepped into the room.
The open door swung around hard and slammed into him, knocking him off his feet, and before Kurkin could react, he found himself staring at the muzzle of an M-16. He had lowered his own weapon and could not bring it up in time.
He couldn’t understand what the American said, but the situation was clear enough. He carefully placed his AK-47 on the floor, then stood up again, hands raised.