He glanced to either end of the alleyway between the main assembly building and a low shed with a corrugated roof and breeze-way still plain beneath stained whitewash. If there was anyone, if they had heard the banging against the door—?
… just caught short — have to go here, OK? The guard had followed him, amused. He had had to force a conversation with the man, through nerves and the mounting fear of the proximity of the guard and his rifle… where did you say they were keeping that poor bastard? Kedrov the spy yes that's him… He had foolishly repeated every word the guard had uttered, as if to memorize a complicated sequence of instructions. A thin stream of urine. The biting cold of the midday air because he wasn't wearing an overcoat or cap or gloves. He finished urinating. Knew he could simply go back inside and wait for the inevitable — the unavoidable. He had turned to the guard, zipping his trousers, smiling awkwardly. Rifle, guard nodding, his bulk larger than Priabin's.
The EVA was over, the crew was back aboard Kutuzov. The shut-de had used its small clusters of rockets to move away from the laser weapon. Firing of the rocket of the PAM was thirty minutes away. The countdown was at two hours.
He had lashed out at the guard's chin and missed, grazing the reacting man's ear. Moved, hit again and again, wrestled with the gun…
Two hours. At the end of that time the laser battle station would have achieved its thousand mile-high orbit above the pole and would have been aligned on its target, Atlantis. Rodin would commence the firing sequence and the American shuttle would be vaporized. It would disappear. And, and… unthinkable.
He had not intended action. He was deeply frightened now that he had done so. The guard seemed to be snoring in his unconsciousness, his face chilly with cold, his hands slackly on the rifle. Priabin snatched at it, unhooking its strap from around the man's neck. The guard's head flopped horridly, as if he were dead. Priabin flinched away from him. He had not intended — but the tension had mounted in him because of his inactivity.
The scheme was patchy. It involved Kedrov, it involved stopping the firing of the weapon. He could do nothing else, stop nothing except the firing sequence. Kedrov had to know how it could be done. If he did not, then—
Priabin looked down at the guard. Irrevocable. He was committed now. He shivered with reaction, gripping the rifle tightly, squeezing its warmed metal. Glanced to either end of the alley in a panicky, sweaty haste. His body felt hot now. He had to rid himself of the guard, put him, tie him — where?
He rolled the guard away from the double doors with his foot. If seemed a huge effort. He needed a vehicle to get to GRU headquarters, he needed a means of entering that place, he needed, he deeded—
— to get the guard out of sight, don't think ahead, just do this, do this — come on, come on, break! He twisted the folding stock of the AKMS in the chain and padlock. Sweat sheened his forehead, his muscles had no strength, the flimsy chain seemed insuperable… and parted slowly, with a slight creak like the opening of a window.
He pushed the doors open. Darkness. The light seemed to spill in slowly. It illuminated boxes, shelves, cans — of paint. He wanted to laugh. A paint store. And the doors had been seriously in need of painting.
He dragged the guard into the darkness, found the man's handkerchief and gagged him with it, tying his own around the man's mouth to keep the wad in place. The rifle was banging on his back as he worked, and seemed omnipresent. But he could not use it, not on an unconscious man. Mistake, mistake.
Everything you've done so far is a mistake, he told himself. You can't do it, anyway, so shut up about it.
The man's belt and webbing. Hands and feet together behind him, a reversed fetal position. He tightened the straps viciously, perhaps because he couldn't kill him.
He stood in the air for a moment, breathing laboredly. Hands on his hips. Then he picked up the chain and rethreaded it through the door handles. Hid the broken link as well as he could, left the lock dangling as if still effective. Glanced along the alleyway once more. Still no one. He looked a last time at the door. The chain appeared sound. He began running along the alleyway, his memory of this place playing in his mind like a very old film; stained, patchy, flickering. But there—
He forced himself to remember. Main assembly building, attendant stores, workshops, other facilities, parking lots. Parking lots. Military and civilian. He needed something like a UAZ jeep, something that would not be suspicious, not out of place, still free to move around the high-security area. Parking lot—
— left now, then right. He moved incautiously, like a rat seeking reward through its familiar maze, down the alleyways between the crowding complex of buildings. He saw no one.
Until he reached the open space of the parking lot. Civilian and military vehicles parked within regimented white lines. The lot was almost full. Two men were lounging against a wall, smoking, white lab coats beneath their open topcoats. Fur hats. They were fifty yards away, and uninterested. All they could see was a uniform; a capless officer with a rifle. Baikonur was full of officers. A military driver stepped out of a UAZ, other men were leaning out of a canvas-hooded truck. As his breathing calmed, he began to see how many people there were. He began to stroll. He was not out of place here… you are not, you are not out of place, you are not.
The truck drove off, smoke pluming from the exhaust. The driver of the UAZ was carrying a metal box, sealed and locked. Priabin passed him with only a single line of parked cars between them. The guard hardly glanced in his direction after saluting casually. He had not even noticed the KGB flashes.
He reached the UAZ and turned. The soldier with the metal box entered the building where the two technicians were lounging against the wall. Priabin glanced into the vehicle. The key was in the ignition. A lucky rabbit's foot dangled from it. Thank God.
He watched the technicians, but could not wait. They wouldn't know, would they? They wouldn't know which vehicle it was.
He climbed in, placing the rifle on the passenger seat. His hands gripped the wheel. They had begun shaking. He looked up at the pale midday sky. Cloudless above a cold desert. It was as if the keys had been left here, as if the guard had been unaware — on purpose. Rope with which to hang himself; a trap. Luck, he kept telling himself, luck. They're not watching you… luck.
He turned the key. The engine caught, and he revved it as if shouting defiantly at someone. He turned the wheel and headed for the road, bumped over the low curb, then was heading south toward Tyuratam.
Fifteen minutes, ten perhaps.
He had watched the firing of the shuttle's small auxiliary maneuvering rockets, the sliding away of the laser weapon — or so it seemed from the camera's view aboard Kutuzov—until it was a pinprick less bright than some of the stars. He had listened to the voices from the shuttle, the voice of mission control. He had listened to the revised countdown, he had listened to Rodin's public-address voice as he bestowed congratulations to every part of the vast room. He had looked, he had listened—
— until the lid had blown off his rage and frustration and guilt at doing nothing. He had to do something, he had to try to stop Rodin — who was capable of anything. There was no one else to stop him. Gant was as good as dead — he had to do something—
— and the trigger was knowing that Gant was still alive like's running into a box…toe have him all but pinpointed… only the *U>o casualties so far… ten minutes and hes ours.
Priabin glanced wildly at his watch. Since he'd heard that report from the Armenian border with Turkey, fifteen minutes had passed. He knew Gant was alive and was just as certain he would soon be dead — odds of as much as fifty to one, all his opponents spetsnaz troops, no way out — and he had to do something, as if it were his turn to act.