Priabin reached into the overcoat and drew out the large-scale map of Baikonur he had removed from the UAZ. It cracked an^ rustled as he unfolded it. His finger dabbed at the map. "There, there, even there. There are abandoned silos everywhere."
Kedrov turned the map so that he could study it more easily. One of them is too distant — we couldn't get there. Two others are too exposed, too close to new roads. That one's the most isolated in terms of what else is in the vicinity." His finger tapped at the map. 'They were abandoned in the early sixties. A^ small group of silos, I think."
"Come on, then," Priabin snapped, suddenly getting to his feet, tucking the map untidily under his arm like a newspaper. "We've got thirty minutes!"
20: Tunnels
He was propped against the wall of the tunnel like an abandoned doll, legs splayed and numb, head drumming with the blow of the shock wave. The downdraft whirled up dust and brick rubble, which stung his face and filled his nose and eyes. Nausea welled in his throat. He clutched the rifle tightly in his hands.
Then the ugly nose of the gunship drifted into view, dropping like a spider into the arching gap of daylight that was just clearing of dust. Gun, rockets, missiles slung beneath its stubby wings.
It can't see you it can't, can't…
He struggled to convince himself, his body running the tape loop over and over, prompting an effort at survival. He struggled to his feet, his weight resting heavily against the icy, wet stonework. The nose of the Mil intruded like that of a hungry cat into a mouse hole. Snuffling and eager, violence assured.
The walls of the tunnel were splashed with bright, crude light. Rails gleamed. Gant cringed back farther into the shadows of a narrow archway that was too cramped to conceal him more than momentarily; but for now the light washed just in front of him.
If only his legs would regain some kind of mobility, if only his head would clear, if only the noise would stop dinning off the walls. He kept his gaze away from the dust-hazed light.
The Mil rumbled a few feet closer, as close as it dared. There's only a single track, he heard some distant part of his mind confirm, the rotor span is sixty feet, it can't come in after you. It would wait, just so long as he didn't move, until troops had abseiled down from the waterfall or came up in trucks along the military highway. Or until it dropped its own troops, if it had any aboard. It was only a moment's pause.
Its ugly snout continued to swivel and sniff at the tunnel's mouth. Dust and debris seemed as if lifted and flung by a hurricane. The light of the lamp was foggy. Water splashed on his face and hands in large, uprooted droplets. The force of the downdraft thrust at him like a hand.
He was perhaps fifteen yards from the entrance. He glanced to his left, down the length of the tunnel. He was «two miles from the border. He could see no blob or even prick of light — the tunnel must curve in its passage under the mountains as it followed the course of the river. He must run.
The MiL's cabin door was open. The wheels of the helicopter were no more than feet above the rails. Shapes dropped quickly. Gant felt the gravel under his feet shivering as at the first tremors of an earthquake. Three of them, and more coming behind, down the cliffs or up the road. Then, above the din, a voice bellowed through the distortion of a loudspeaker.
"You can't escape, Major — we know what you have. There's no way you can get out of here."
The first of the men had entered the tunnel, and was clearly silhouetted. He restrained the curl of his finger on the rifle's trigger. He fumbled instead for the kit bag, tugging open its drawn-tight neck, and pulled something out. It was the right shape, what he wanted. The first soldier moved cautiously closer, the MiL's nose snuffled with what seemed an increased appetite. Flashlights flicked on, weak fireworks beside the glare of the lamp.
Lamp, infrared, low-light TV—
He raised the flare pistol from the kit bag and fired, turning his head away, clenching his eyelids shut. The cartridge struck the opposite wall of the tunnel, exploding against the brickwork, hissing like a cauldron before it glared brighter than the lamp. Smoke made him cough, the light was white beyond his eyelids, even though he had crooked his arm across his eyes. The noise of the rotors was distanced by the adrenaline that surged through his body.
Run, run—
He stumbled, still not daring to open his eyes, his left hand guiding him by scraping along the tunnel, so that the rope burns began to pain him once more. Fear for his ankles, his footing, grew in his mind as he stumbled on. The glare was still evident, even through his eyelids. The loudspeaker bellowed. He felt lightheaded. He was becoming careless of his footing. He opened his eyes into slits. Light, still lurid on the wall, hurt the backs of his eyes.
Wild shooting behind him. He heard no ricochets. He paused. Watched his shadow dying on the rock. Far ahead of him, he could see a tiny speck of daylight. The tunnel was clear and the exit was at least half a mile away. The light from the flare was dying now. Within seconds, their retinas and infrared would recover. He breathed in deeply and thrust the flare pistol back into the kit bag. The Mil was out of sight around the bend of the tunnel. His heart was large and painful in his chest as he ran on. He could hear his own footsteps echoing off the walls, as if pursuing him. The noise of the rotors had almost gone now.
The patch of daylight, recognizable now as the mouth of the tunnel, darkened. Was filled by something. Cutting off his escape.
"Yes, comrade General, all systems are functioning properly."
"When can we cut the links with central control?"
"In ten minutes, comrade General, target acquisition will be completed and we'll be locked on here."
"Ten minutes… and how long before—?"
Two minutes after the platform is raised to the surface, the transmitter will be aligned and locked on."
"Twelve minutes. Good. You have my order to proceed with Lightning—to its conclusion."
"Very good, comrade General Rodin. Countdown at — eleven minutes, fifty seconds — mark and counting."
"In the tunnel? How can they be sure?"
"Mr. President, we're monitoring their radio traffic. It's being screamed all over their Tac channel."
"How many troops do they have on the ground — close to him?"
"Maybe as many as a dozen spetsnaz units in the immediate area — a lot more in reserve. A dozen or so gunships, and there are whole convoys of troop trucks on the main highway."
"Then he has to have something decisive."
"That's our thinking, Mr. President."
"Then we have to get him out."
"I don't think we can."
"Listen to me. The Turkish government has pushed army units right up to the border. They have air cover, all we asked for. The price we're having to pay doesn't matter. The Turks have been co operative. Now we have to do more than they're doing."
"Mr. President, we can't afford an incident, not now, not today."
"Dick, all of you — we can't afford not to have an incident!"