”I want to know what happened to that lousy cop,” Wilcox said. “We’re freezing our asses off in here while he’s kissing up to that butch lieutenant...”
”Shut up, Wilcox,” Lynch said. “All of you shut up.”
”Why?” Wilcox demanded.
”So we can plan how we’re going to get out of here and what we’re going to do once we’re out,”
Philips told him. “Did anyone see where they put our gear?”
”That storeroom across the hall,” Lynch said. “But, sir, I don’t see how we’re going to get out of here.”
”Our orders were to secure the alien ship,” Philips said, “and we sure as hell can’t do that from in here, now can we?” He reached down and pulled a flattened cylinder from his boot-the Russians had taken their packs and had patted them down, but the search hadn’t been very thorough. “So we grab our equipment, we secure the station, and then we head out for that ship. Now, give me a hand with those mattresses ...”
A few moments later the guard at the barracks door heard shouting and banging. He turned, startled.
He had had English in school, of course, everyone did. He hadn’t used it in years, though, and he had never actually spoken English to anyone outside a classroom. He struggled to make out words through the locked door.
One voice seemed to be doing all the shouting. “Hey!” the American called. “You out there! You speak English? Ever seen a Super Bowl? You watch X-Files? What’s the capital of Sacramento?”
The guard could not follow that. He struggled to remember the words he wanted.
”Slow,” he shouted back. “You talk slow, please!”
”The door!” the American shouted.
The guard frowned. He knew that word. It was almost like the Russian. “Door” meant dvyer. He unslung his AK-47 and stepped closer to the door. “What, door?” he asked.
”It’s got termites bozo!” the American shouted. The guard had no idea what the American was talking about, or what “termites bozo” might be. He stepped up and put a hand on the door.
It seemed solid enough. It was cold to the touch-extremely cold-so the crazy American wasn’t worried about a fire.
”What, door?” he repeated.
”C-4 termites!” the American said.
The blast smashed the door upward and outward-the lower hinge was torn from the frame instantly, since the C-4 charge had been almost at floor level, and the lock gave as well, but the upper hinge held at first, so that the upper two thirds of the door pivoted up like a gigantic pinball flipper and smashed the guard off his feet. The explosion reduced the bottom third of the door to bits and drove four-inch splinters into the guard’s legs, belly, and groin.
Inside the barracks the blast was absorbed by the stacked mattresses that had been piled on top of the little surprise package from Philips’s boot. The sound was still startling, almost deafening.
”Come on,” Philips barked, leading the way over the resulting heap of cotton stuffing, broken wood, and blood.
Chapter 24
Ligacheva and Schaefer both jerked upright in their seats at the sound of the explosion. “The barracks!” Ligacheva said. She called to the guard at the door, “Galan, stay here-be ready for anything. I’ll take the American with me.”
She rose, beckoned to Schaefer, and headed briskly down the passage.
Schaefer followed, noticing that Ligacheva was not bothering to keep a close eye on him. He wasn’t sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult; she seemed to trust him, but when it came right down to it, she had no business doing so.
If he turned aside and lost himself somewhere in the mostly empty complex, she might never find him-but she wasn’t the enemy, despite what Lynch and company might think, despite what she herself might think.
Besides, he wanted to know what the hell had blown up. He could always slip away later.
The two of them headed down the station’s central corridor at a fast trot, then turned the corner into the passage to the workers’ barracks.
There they both stopped dead. There was no need to go any farther to see what had happened, where the explosion had been. The Russian guard lay sprawled on the floor, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, and the smell of explosive and charred wood filled the passage.
No Americans were in sight.
”It would appear that your friends have escaped,” Ligacheva said. “As has my guard, in a different sense.”
”They’re soldiers, Lieutenant,” Schaefer said. “That’s their job.”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she started to step forward for a closer look at the debris.
As she did, she heard the scrape of boots on concrete. Before she could take a second step, an American appeared in the doorway of the nearby storeroom and pointed an M-16 at her-the American captain, Lynch. Ligacheva started, and realized that her hands were empty, that she held no weapon. She had left her AK-47 back in the common room.
Annoyed with herself and seeing no alternative, she raised her hands in surrender. The American captain smiled.
”They do their job better than I do mine, it would seem,” Ligacheva said.
”For the moment,” Schaefer agreed.
”Hey, cop,” Lynch said, “speak English.”
”I wasn’t talking to you,” Schaefer said.
”Fine, then. Talk if you like. I don’t know what you two are jawing about, but you know what? Right now I don’t much care. We’ve got our thermal suits and our cold-weather guns and enough ammo to take down Rhode Island, so I don’t guess it makes any difference what you’re saying.” He gestured with the M-16. “Give me a hand with some of this stuff, and we’ll go join the others.”
Schaefer stepped up to the storeroom door; Lynch tossed him a heavy backpack, which he caught one-handed.
”So Philips is running the show again?” Schaefer asked, slinging the pack on his shoulder.
”The general’s talking to the brass, and until he’s done with that, I’m in charge,” Lynch said. He hefted another pack. “You know, Schaefer, somehow, as long as we’ve got this stuff, I don’t think the Russkies will give us any more trouble. Yessir, there’s a new sheriff in town around here.”
”Your playsuits and your weapons,” Ligacheva said in Russian. “Ah, you have your precious toys back, and now you are invincible!”
Lynch glowered uncomprehendingly at her. “Shut up and move,” he barked, pointing eastward down the main corridor. “Schaefer, what’s she saying?”
”She’s admiring your aftershave, Lynch,” Schaefer said. “Shit, who cares what she’s saying? The Russians aren’t the problem, Lynch! Can’t you get that straight?” He started striding down the corridor. “Where’s Philips? He’ll tell you.
”I told you, the general’s put me in charge while he sets up our satellite uplink,” Lynch interrupted.
”So tell this Russkie lieutenant to have her boys surrender ASAP, or we’ll spam ‘em into dog food.”
Schaefer grimaced. Lynch had apparently forgotten that the lieutenant spoke good English. Somehow, given what Schaefer knew of Lynch, this did not surprise him.
”What does he say?” Ligacheva asked in Russian. “His accent is too thick, and I don’t know all those words.”
”This asshole wants me to tell you that if you and your men don’t give up, we’re all dead.” They were approaching the side passage to the pipeline maintenance area-apparently that was where Lynch was directing them.
Ligacheva didn’t reply, and Schaefer glanced at her; somehow, he didn’t believe that she was quite as resigned to capture as she appeared.
”Got any ideas?” Schaefer asked.
”Just one,” Ligacheva said in Russian. “Fuck him,” she concluded in English. She grabbed Schaefer by the shoulder and yanked him in front of Lynch’s M-16, then started running for the smashed east door.
Schaefer was caught off guard and allowed himself to be shoved between Lynch and Ligacheva. He glanced ba
ck at Lynch, then at the fleeing Russian woman, and in an instant he decided he preferred Ligacheva, and to hell with nationalities; he’d rather join her out in the snow than hang around with Lynch and the other assholes Philips had brought along. He began running himself, following Ligacheva.
Behind them Lynch hesitated, unsure whether Schaefer was chasing the Russian or fleeing with her; in either case the cop was between himself and the woman, and he didn’t think the general would be pleased if someone shot his civilian advisor in the back.
The two of them ran out into the wind and snow while Lynch was still debating with himself, and then the opportunity was gone.
The bitter wind tore at Schaefer’s face as he ran; his cheeks went numb almost instantly, while from the neck down he remained eerily warm.
”Jesus, it’s cold,” he muttered as they charged up the slope, and the moisture in his breath froze into ice on his upper lip almost as soon as the words left his mouth. His short-cropped hair provided almost no insulation, and he didn’t have his helmet-his scalp tingled with cold.
”The temperature has been falling,” Ligacheva said.
”Christ, it wasn’t cold enough? Wasn’t it about sixty below?”
”Sixty ... ?” Ligacheva glanced back at him. “Do you mean Celsius?”
”Fahrenheit,” Schaefer said as they topped the ridge. “Not that it matters much. Where are we going, anyway”
”To join Sergeant Yashin, perhaps?” Ligacheva suggested. “He, at least, fights the right foe. Sixty below zero in Fahrenheit would be minus fifty or so, wouldn’t it? That sounds close. But it’s colder now, much colder.”
Schaefer did not want to think about the fact that he was exposing bare skin to something significantly more than sixty degrees below zero. That was colder than any place in North America ever got, and this Russian seemed to be taking it right in stride. “So where’s Yashin?” he asked.
Ligacheva pointed to the tracks in the snow, then ahead, to the northeast.
”Halt!” someone called in Russian.
Ligacheva stopped dead instantly; Schaefer stumbled another few steps, then dropped flat to the snow at the crack of a rifle shot.
He got cautiously to his feet to find the lieutenant facing a young Russian soldier with a smoking AK-47.
”Kazakov,” Ligacheva demanded, “what are you doing out here?”
”The sergeant left me on guard,” the soldier explained. “Why are you here, Lieutenant?”
”The Americans have escaped and captured the station,” Ligacheva replied.
Kazakov blinked at her, and Schaefer noticed that his lashes and eyebrows were white with frost. “What should we do?” he asked unsteadily.
”You have a radio?”
”Wait a minute ...” Schaefer began, but before he could say any more, Kazakov swung the AK-47 to point at the American’s chest.
”Don’t shoot him,” Ligacheva said. “He’s our translator, and the only one of the Americans with any sense. Call Sergeant Yashin.”
”Yes, sir.” Kazakov lowered his weapon and reached for the radio in his shoulder pack.
Schaefer got slowly back up on his own feet and picked up his dropped pack, realizing as he did that he didn’t know just what Lynch had given him to carry, or whether it was worth hauling along.
This didn’t seem to be the time and place to check it out, however, with the two Russians watching him. Instead he stood and waited as Kazakov managed to make intermittent contact with Yashin’s expedition.
Schaefer couldn’t make out the conversation over the howling of the wind, and didn’t seriously try; instead he watched the ridgetop, waiting to see if Lynch or one of the others might be coming after them.
”They’re on their way back,” Kazakov reported a moment later.
”So now what?” Schaefer demanded. “You trying to work these idiots up into a pitched battle?”
Ligacheva stared up at him calmly. “You said they would all die if they went to face the monsters unprepared,” she said. “I am trying to prevent that. Perhaps we can all work together and find some way to defeat these things.”
”The best thing we can do is just leave them alone and let them go,” Schaefer said. “They don’t want to be here, and either they’re going to leave as soon as they can, or the cold’s going to kill them.”
”And you want them to simply depart?”
Schaefer smiled a vicious, tight smile. “No, I want the bastards dead,” he answered. “I never liked them much in the first place, and I saw what they did to your people back there. Nobody should do that to good men and get away with it. I don’t give a shit about their technology, though, and I don’t think we’ve got what it takes to take them all down, and I don’t want to lose more good men trying. I’m hoping the cold will get them all.”
”And if it does?”
”Then you and Philips can fight about who gets to study the shipwreck.”
”I would prefer that we not fight at all-except, perhaps, against those creatures. Do you really think there is nothing we can do?”
”Oh, we can fight,” Schaefer said. “If they come after us I’ll fight them. But I’m not going to walk into any traps if I ...” He paused, listening.
He could hear the rumble of engines over the wind.
”Yashin,” Ligacheva said. “Come on.” She turned and led the way up to the ridgetop.
Schaefer followed.
Lynch and the others had taken up defensive positions around the east door, he saw-they had learned from their earlier mistake not to be caught out in the open. Schaefer spotted Wilcox crouched behind a huge pipe; Dobbs had dug into a hollow in the ice beneath a vent, while Lassen stood at the southeast corner of the building, and Lynch himself crouched in the doorway. Gennaro was climbing a service ladder to a post on the station’s roof.
Philips was nowhere in sight.
”What do they think they’re doing?” Ligacheva asked. “Why are they trying to keep possession of the pumping station in the first place?”
”It’s their turf now,” Schaefer said in English. “They’re challenging Yashin to a pissing contest, that’s what they’re doing.”
”‘Pissing contest’?”
Schaefer could not remember a Russian equivalent. “Never mind,” he said. “Look.”
He pointed as a Russian APV ground into sight over a snowdrift and headed for the station, its headlights throwing spotlights on Lynch and Dobbs. A second vehicle followed close behind.
”That’s Sergeant Yashin,” Ligacheva said, pointing to a man climbing out of the first vehicle. “He had not gone as far as I thought.”
As she spoke, Schaefer heard a noise behind them; he turned to find a third, much smaller vehicle pulling into the shallow valley where Kazakov had been standing guard.
Ligacheva waved to the driver; he was, Schaefer saw, alone in the vehicle.
”I was sent to fetch you, Lieutenant,” the driver called. “You and Kazakov.”
”Thank you, Maslennikov,” Ligacheva replied. “I think we had best wait a moment, however.” She turned to look down at the confrontation below.
Just then a single shot sounded, clearly audible despite the wind.
They didn’t see who had fired first, but seconds later the air was full of the rattle of automatic weapons fire and the red lines of tracers.
”Shit,” Schaefer said as he dropped to his belly to make himself a smaller target.
Ligacheva was right beside him; Kazakov stumbled back off the ridgetop, into the darkness, while Maslennikov stayed in his vehicle.
”So much for international cooperation,” Schaefer said. “Looks like we’ll kill each other before those alien bastards get the chance.”
Ligacheva nodded. “Yashin has been ready for a fight since he arrived, eager to defend the Motherland; your men seem to be happy to oblige him.”
Schaefer watched for a few seconds, then squinted. “Do you have binoculars?” he asked Ligacheva.
She turned and called into the gloom, “Kazakov! Field glasses!”
The private scrambled back up the ridge and handed the lieutenant the glasses, which she passed to Schaefer. He peered through them.
It hadn’t been his imagination; where Wilcox had leaned against the pipe something yellow was dripping from his arm. A smear of the stuff was on the pipe, too.
It wasn’t blood; Wilcox might be an asshole, but he was human, and in the light from the Russian vehicles there could be no question that that seeping fluid was yellow, not red. Then what ...
The suits. Schaefer looked down at his own arms in the brown plastic thermal suit. The suits were filled with circulating fluid, and that had to be what that yellow stuff was. Had Wilcox been hit?
He lifted the glasses and watched.
Gennaro, up on the roof, flung himself prone, and yellow goo sprayed up as if he’d belly flopped into custard. The seams along either side of the suit had burst.
Schaefer snatched off one of his gloves and prodded experimentally at his own suit with rapidly freezing bare fingers.
The plastic had gone brittle. The suit hadn’t been intended for weather this cold, for the strains of warming and cooling, for the stress of battle.
Siberia, Schaefer knew, was the second coldest place on Earth, behind only Antarctica-the North Pole itself, thanks to the Arctic Ocean, wasn’t as cold as Siberia in midwinter. Nothing in North America came close; the army could have tested the suits in the worst weather Alaska or Greenland could throw at them and never had any problem, but that didn’t mean they’d hold up here.
All the seams in Gennaro’s suit must have split open when he flopped down like that.
”Shit,” Schaefer said as he pulled the glove back on.
And then Gennaro’s gun exploded, spraying metal splinters that gouged into his face, barely missing his eyes.
More of the same, Schaefer thought, as he watched Gennaro roll onto his back, clapping his hands over his injured face. Steel goes brittle in extreme cold-that was what had done in the Titanic, he’d heard; the cold water of the North Atlantic had turned the metal brittle, so a mere brush with the iceberg had popped rivets in all directions, and the ship had snapped right in two as she went down.
Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Predator 02 Page 15
