He found what he needed and grabbed up a black handset beside the monitor and dialed the number from the back of his notebook. Bukin hated the corporal for following protocol — and shortly, another officer would feel the same way about him.
He had ninety-one minutes until a U.S. Lacrosse satellite made its first of two daily flights over Providenya. When it did, the Americans were sure to see the river.
Still hopelessly oblivious, Popovich used the computer mouse to move around the image, studying the old MIG 17 base.
“My girlfriend is Chukchi Eskimo,” The corporal whistled under his breath. “She tells me crazy stories of Providenya. The townspeople do not speak of it much, but there are many secret things that go on there.”
Junior Lieutenant Bukin held up his hand to quiet the idiot corporal, then cupped his hand around the telephone receiver to explain the situation in frenzied whispers. If the other conscripts noticed, or cared about what was going on, they didn’t show it. The officer on the other end of the line explained in no uncertain terms how he wanted Bukin to proceed.
“Now?” the junior lieutenant whispered. “Here?”
The officer held firm with his order.
“Yes, Captain,” Bukin said, feeling his future prospects drain away. “I understand. I will do so immediately.” He replaced the receiver, trying to remain nonchalant as his hand dropped to the Makarov pistol on his belt and moved it to the pocket of his uniform tunic.
“I want to hear more about what your girlfriend has told you,” Bukin said, offering the conscript a cigarette, hoping the boy didn’t see his hands shake. He shot a conspiratorial glance around the room. “But we mustn’t do it here. Let us step outside and discuss it in private. Bukin followed the foolish conscript out the door, his hand gripping the Makarov in his uniform pocket. His orders had been clear. Those who spoke too much of Providenya must end up like the fish.
“Gemorróy!” Colonel Ruslan Rostov spat into the telephone. His bald head glowed red, his broad face twisted as if frozen in the middle of a sneeze. Thick knuckles turned white around the handset. “How many dead?”
“At this point, twenty-seven, sir,” Captain Evgeni Lodygin said, his voice characteristically deadpan. “I anticipate that number to go up as the spill moves downstream and enters the bay.”
Rostov knew Lodygin to be exceptionally capable though he did have his little eccentricities. But for certain violent lapses in judgment with the occasional prostitute — whom no one would ever miss anyway — he was able to control his most unseemly appetites. There were times when a high-functioning psychopath could be a valuable commodity — a fact that Rostov had learned from experience.
The colonel bounced his fist on the desk in frustration. “How much was leaked?”
Lodygin cleared his throat, obviously stalling.
“How much?”
“The entire cache is missing,” Lodygin said.
“Then this was no accident?” Rostov felt his career evaporating. The general would be furious. He hunched forward in his chair, dumbstruck. “Someone released the chemicals on purpose?”
“I fear that is exactly what occurred, Colonel,” Lodygin said.
“The old fool dumped all his work into the river?” Rostov said, still processing the gravity of the situation. He felt as though he might begin to weep. “This will kill thousands. I will be summoned to Moscow…”
“That is the thing, Colonel,” Lodygin said. “All the Novo Archangelsk is missing, but we have only found a dozen empty containers in Volodin’s lab.”
Rostov closed his eyes, steeling himself.
“How much stock was on hand?”
“He destroyed the records,” Lodygin said. “Much of the stock has already been sent to secure storage in the vault, but there were at least three cases in the lab as of last week.”
“Two full cases…” Rostov whispered. That meant two-dozen canisters of the most deadly gas known to mankind were unaccounted for. The news hit him like a sledgehammer in the guts, but as terrible at that was, he had the more immediate problem of the oncoming American satellite.
“Very well,” he said. “We must focus on the immediate problem of the spill at this moment.”
“Of course,” Lodygin said. “The deaths would have been catastrophic had the water not diluted the compounds. Prevailing winds continue to blow in from the sea, toward generally uninhabited mountains. If the winds reverse, or begin to blow southerly the entire city would be affected.”
Rostov groaned. Providenya was a far-flung outpost at the edge of nowhere — that’s what made it perfect. But two thousand bloating bodies would be a difficult thing to conceal, even at the edge of the world.
“All but essential personnel have been ordered to remain in their quarters,” Lodygin continued. “Those who must work outdoors are required to wear a protective suit and breathing apparatus. I’ve told local authorities across the bay that there has been a leak of chlorine gas from a shipping container. They are using the tsunami warning system to have everyone stay in their homes until ordered to do otherwise. So far no one has spoken of Novo Archangelsk.”
“And you would be wise to keep quiet about it.” Rostov exhaled slowly. Containment. Everything now was about containment. “What of the fish?” he said. “What do you intend to do about them?”
“Ah, the fish,” Lodygin said, maddeningly smug. “My men are spraying them with black paint as we speak.”
“Paint?” the colonel bellowed. He shoved the padded leather chair away from his desk, sending a ceramic coffee mug made for him by his fifteen-year-old daughter against the thin, institutional carpet, dashing it to pieces. “Paint, you say? How you were ever promoted to captain is a mystery to me. I am told the Onyx 182 will overfly Providenya in sixty-three minutes and your most brilliant plan to conceal the fish is to spray them with black paint?
Onyx was a codename for the fifteen-ton American Lacrosse radar imaging satellite that passed over the Russian Far East twice every day.
“I assure you, Colonel, we will prove successful, but I am happy to institute your superior plan.”
Rostov closed his eyes. He took a deep breath through his nose in an effort to steady himself before speaking.
“Captain Lodygin,” he said. “Did it even occur to you that you will simply have a river full of dead fish covered in black paint? You would be wise to remember that American satellites are capable of counting the dimples on a golf ball at night and in bad weather.”
“That is true enough.” Lodygin gave a hollow cough, as if he was being forced to pay attention to something that bored him, his superior officer for instance. “But the Lacrosse passes over 650 kilometers above us, covering a large target swath with each pass. That is a great deal of area on which to spy encompassing many square kilometers of terrain. More clearly, the American satellites are so sophisticated that they have mountains of data to sift through. This makes it much easier to hide the golf ball you mention unless they have a specific reason to focus on it in particular.”
“Very well,” Rostov sighed. “But I will shoot you myself before I face a firing squad.”
“Do we yet utilize firing squads?” Lodygin said, dead serious.
“I will reinstitute the practice myself for your benefit, Captain,” Rostov said, his voice rising, “if you do not keep the Americans from seeing those fish! And arrest that fool Volodin. He’s obviously responsible for the spill — and I want to know what he’s done with the rest of it.”
Rostov consoled himself by imagining what he would do to the doddering scientist. The Kremlin had forced the man on him with assurances that he was the best in the field of chemical weapons. And so he was, but he was also a nightmare. Once a gifted scientist, Kostya Volodin had begun to slip mentally. Worse yet, he appeared to have developed a conscience over chemical weapons. Rostov had reported this, but the general had made it clear — Novo Archangelsk was important to the Kremlin and to the President himself. The responsibility of keeping Volodin working fell squarely on Rostov’s shoulders. Up to now, the greasy Lodygin had been doing just that, allowing Rostov to abstain from the gory details.